#2

Such a flimsy life,
made as it is
out of plasterboard
and chock full of holes,
I well expect the signs
of some sturdier existence
to peek through at the seams
any moment now.

Any moment now
I'll wake up and realize
I've been wasting my time
on the cheapest details,
fretting about the creases
of dimestore decorations,
like the time I went to Disneyland
at age twenty-five
and tried to repeat
taking Peter Pan's ride
through the air above midnight
above an enchanted city
but saw only black cardboard
poked full of holes
resting against the walls
of a dark and dirty room.

Any moment now
I'll punch a fist
through one of these flimsy walls
and step out into
the brightest sunlight,
laughing with relief
at the sturdiness of the ground
and the undeniable strength
of the overhanging boughs.







#3

The mariner's statue, by Marisol,
rises out of the water off Battery Park.
Two metal figures,
oxydized green as the sea around them--
One lies face down
on the prow of a sinking ship,
his arm fully extended
down in an effort
to grasp the hand of the other,
who reaches up from the sea,
his face alternately submerged
and uncovered by the waves.
And there they remain
forever poised in this,
the most beautiful of human acts,
two figures gently sculpted
and perpetually imperiled
on the edge of a precipice
where the significance of their gesture
dwarfs the significance
of their predicament.







#4

Where else shall I spend my life?
On what better mountaintop,
in what better valley,
by what better stream
shall I pass the days of my life?
The sweet and fragrant smell
of blooming things
hangs upon the air of even this,
my humble cabin.
The birds chirp and frolic
amongst even these humble trees.
Sweet inspiration, you are fickle as the breeze
that sweeps down from the mountain top,
crossing the stream in ripples,
shakes the boughs hanging overhead,
causing their leaves to rustle,
sends a chill,
like a scale played upon a piano,
up and down my spine
and then is gone,
leaving a lone bird's cry
in its empty wake.
Where else, then, shall I wait for you?

What more shall I desire of my life
than that it be thrilling?
What more shall I desire
than to sing like the wind chimes
that play upon the porch of even this,
my humble cabin?
The sun rises from even this east
and warms even this gentle bank.
In the early morning its rays caress
even this shivering back.
The sun sets upon even this west
and lights even this sky with flame.
In the early evening its rays delight
even these tired eyes.
What else, then, shall I seek of the sun?







#5

This dry brook
through which the snowcapped mountains
released their early torrents
and which was near to overflowing
with springtime rain
is but a trickle now,
a withered course amongst the rocks.

Yet still its comforting sound
draws me to its banks
where I stand uncertain,
looking up at the mountains
and foolishly imagining
that at any moment
its waters will rush full again.







#6

There is sunlight on my brook.
The rapids are dancing white,
and the woods that hang above them
are a hundred shiny greens.

Laugh and sing a song,
for next the light is gone
and the brook is black
and the woods are dull.







#7

Trapped inside the screened-in porch
the gold wasp buzzed
against the wire mesh.

Buzzed and lighted
buzzed and lighted
buzzed and lighted
upon the wire mesh.

Buzzed and lighted
buzzed and lighted
buzzed and lighted
upon the wire mesh.

Buzzed and lighted
buzzed and lighted
buzzed and lighted

At last ceased buzzing
and rested motionless
upon the wire mesh.







#8

After the leaves fell
I thought I'd see nothing. Now
I see the mountains.







#9

Morning of tall pines
standing straight and high.
Stand against the sky.





#10

They never did look real
those towers of steel that seemed
(when their tops were shrouded by clouds)
to stretch up into infinity,
as if they were permanent,
as if they were inevitable,
as if they were omnipresent.

Such a colossus,
such width and breadth
could not be brought low
by any earthly blow,
but rather would live on
to look impassively out
over a multitude of small transgressions.

Then how real now
are these gardens and streets,
these cities that stretch out to the horizon,
these people who strain,
and weep and laugh,
and bloom and fade,
and bloom again?





#11

Contagion of Flies

Flies on the ceiling of this antique room.
How furiously they buzz
against the ceiling lamp,
as if they didn't notice
its beautiful glass engraving.

Flies on the ceiling.
Where did they come from?
Did they condense like solvent
from out of the air?
Or did they start in some dark, neglected spot
and then metastasize?

Where will they go
when I turn out the lamp?
Will they drop to the floor one by one,
or disperse into the corners of the room?
How can I be sure of what happens
when I turn out the lamp?