Inside me, dreams drip and slide like sweat.
A life flourishes and ends on cue.
Such happy animals we are laying out alone
Mid-morning in the fog,
The craven appetite paused for a brief moment
With the sun.
Let’s worship the early crickets praying in the dawn.
Let’s worship the cat’s long stretch against the earth.
I write a poem on the turned cheek of darkness.
I stroke the untroubled bodies of the grass.
The sea is far but its music finds me
For tiny intervals upon the wind.
The universe is large but I reel in my modest
House of bones, in love with the whole damn tapestry
Of gases, and lights, and stars.
questions from the interior
Deep down where reason cannot reach
The curious in you begins to speak,
The true man with his soft, gray voice,
The true man with his penchant for mysteries.
The questions he has are not bred for logic.
They cannot be calculated or controlled.
They cannot be named, numbered, or announced.
They concern such things as the longing of the wind,
The insoluble riddle of the sea,
The moon, which shines so sadly
But never weeps.
They do not concern the “You” you think you are,
Or the “I” I think I am,
Not even the names we name the world.
They neither impart nor demonstrate,
Fill your head full of knowledge
Nor empty you to the core.
The true man, with his mouthful of questions,
Urges you only to ask:
How morning can come so softly
When the sun is so immense?
What is it that shines in sidewalks after rain?
What force really stops
A tear from lifting off the table,
Or a wounded heart
From breaking into song?