the small ribbed shell
a scallop i think
sits in the sand
long abandoned by its
owner
the sand on many beaches
whitesoft under the foot
are nothing more than
the groundup remains
of uncounted shells
just like this
one
and how can we say
we are different or better
when we too are sand under foot
of some later
traveler
Tag: poet
number 19
battling evil!
is that the time?
damn it, ganon!
number 18
distill
everything down
the experience of a sunset
a description of a sunset
the word sunset
the end comes
when
one word means everything
then
silence
number 17
a new walnut seedling
where last year’s failed to take root
a fat worm waits
number 16
twenty three pairs of chromosomes
split and dissected and analyzed
if you ask ten carpenters how to drive in a nail
you’ll get eleven different hammers
pointed at your head
what everyone has to remember
i remind myself
is that there is no such thing as
certainty
–thanks, heisenberg–
you might get an approximate sense
of your current direction
or a somewhat accurate assessment
of your current position
but you won’t get both, sister
number 15
even breathing
pops vertebrae
up and down my spine
once words were my foremost concern
which to use
the order to place them
sonorous qualities and etymologies
now it is sleep
the ache in my feet
the strange pain in my chest
that may be dinner
and escapees
on the run
on the lam
getting out of dodge
leaving me with crisp
white
paper
number 14
i have cleaned the lenses
of my glasses
wiped until no dirt
no greasy fingerprint remains
and yet
after siding them back on
adjusting them so they are not skewed
sit neither too high nor too low
on the bridge of my nose
turned on the lights
but made sure the bulbs
were soft and warm
and never stared directly into the source
of the glow
and yet
nothing is clearer
or in focus
number 13
i buy a tree to plant
having never eaten a persimmon
and remember an old friend
number 12
little steel is left in this blade
no more cuts through sinew
and no marks will its dulled edge leave
no shadows to be interpreted
and if by chance
it manages to wound
the blood it spills now
dribbles out
pale as water
too weak to leave a stain
flame enough in the candle
to cast a feeble glow
abundant illumination to see
the nothings hidden in corners
cobwebs filled with spider corpses
the flies too tired to fly
too dead to buzz
or reflect the light
in dazzling greens and blues
sheath the sword
in its rotting scabbard
and work up enough spit
for your fingers
to snuff the candle
so that the wick doesn’t have
the audacity to curl smoke
like a promise
like a memory
number 11
rice in the unagi hand roll
snowy mountains across the passage
crows watching from overhead lines
Words and Feathers 