I am silent in the learned languages and speak under my breath
In the ones I’m still learning. How do I call you?
So much lost hope singing these pop tunes.
**
Old enough to see the forest isn’t a church.
There are however dropped hymnals which we call mushrooms.
Sometimes lake-blue through trees…
**
Two catbirds call in rain
Cup of coffee in hand
Dog pleased with himself
& books on a table
With accumulated
Natterings—Kierkegaard
Especially, all that desire
For a God
Of the mind
I think
There was no God
In his Danish shoes
No God
In the silver birches
& when he lit a fire
It was simply a fire
So much pressure
On the written word
Like a child’s game—
You know
The one where
Walking
Your footfalls must be perfect
Or someone dies
**
I’m an irreverent fellow. But I can’t laugh at the unbidden, constant sadnesses of happenstance people. This morning however It’s a Mardis Gras moment. I feel like throwing beads like the firemen in New Orleans.
Heart flying but still attached
One makes up stories
With many animals
I find coins
In the grass—
Nunc dimittis
This blindness of mine
King of eyelashes
**
One night I talked with birches
Saying: “I’m not oppressed!”
There was an evening wind, branches rustled,
It seemed they answered me:
“We are incomplete also…”
**
I’m too childish for grief
As a boy I was
Harmed
So I’m a creature of the amygdala—
A a plough-man of sorts
With agoraphobia
I mean grief
Is for adults their losses
Stack neatly like sour cans
In fear daily I cry
Drop to my knees seeing
A dog’s pink mouth
Planet of the Blind 