we looked for light

and walked outside. the longest time
i've ever been alone with her, beautiful woman, beautiful
and i, the constant loss of words.

smoke? she said. she had a box of cigarettes.
now the occasional, i gestured having neither 
stick nor light. no one else in the room 

smokes and we exchanged helpless smiles. 
we walked outside looking for light.
the only time i've ever been in long conversation

with her, whose "fate" in the boardroom was
just partly decided. the word she used for future
was "unease". she wanted to stay

a year more in the country. i didn't
know why, but didn't ask. we might never get to
see each other again until a time.

two cigarettes after at the side of the street
just outside the gate of no-smoking zones, 
we hugged. and she went back in

and i took my leave.

the things we do to roll the stone of the world

1
To roll the stone up the mountaintop, only
having it roll back, to start again. Do you
sometimes feel this old? Bones, body
weathered as stone, faith broken like a horse

learned of certain gain, loss. No longer having
child's eyes even if you cling on to wonder.

2
Yesterday, sitting at the back during a vision-
presentation; and later, in a conference 
by activists: the things done to roll the stone
of the world. To where we hope a better place. 
(Sometimes it takes twice as much to keep on

believing). We do anyway; like the stranger
who introduced himself and shook my hand.

3
And courageous, asked "Will you take a look
at my poems, tell me your thoughts. 
I've shown them to no one else." Such trust.
Such honor to be given it. No matter the poems

were bad; there is always enough gentleness.
Aren't attempts half the success itself?

4
I wrote T a very long letter last night while
I was high, with an explicit apology: "Let me
say these before my short sentences surface."
I meant sober where sober meant quiet.
This morning, I dare not open the sent emails.

Because T is afraid of permanence (and I
never asked why) and I give thoughts bodies

5
of perceivable, tangible form. No plant in pot;
all of them on ground. Rhodora, fierce

woman, I met her again a week ago, gone
the sharpness into gentleness of the weary.
Retired after warring ideologies for sixty years.

6
All these slow march of protests towards that.
Even though we might carry no banner.
The things we do to roll the stone of the world.

I kissed her last night after making love.
The soft lights showing gentleness--

that which makes us keep on 
rolling stone of the world.

what we left behind in love

Who, what we left behind in love.
Left behind out of love. 
All reasons into one final tangible thing--
The leaving. Who truly understands it

Not even fully the one leaving, 
Feeling only that which comes first
As feeling before any knowing--
Feeling being the very first language

Of that that cannot be enclosed
Into any simple names.
Who, what we left behind in love.
Left behind out of love.

Others, as well as our own selves--
Versions of the less or more of
What we now are.

clay

What the clay tells is simple: what is broken from care-less remains broken. 
No amount of shaping, no fire can prepare it for fall. Such things as trust,
Maybe not love.
Or maybe that is why I am wrong. Small heart that I have with not enough 
Room to let in anyone that had, once, been let out. Closed the door.

the angry books

Just this morning while calm 
out with dogs, I thought about
the angry books. The several
I keep where I take turns 
unmasking myself, also
masking self partly from self.

Perhaps, several years from
when I've written them I will 
see them better, see myself
better. Understand blindness.
As when I see my father now.

Corinthian verse

I have stopped defining love, because I can't.
I am resigned to some things impossible, because
Mere I am. Words are as large as universes
Capable of holding entireties I cannot even
Imagine, even though I try volunteering 
As writer, mere puppet of voices.

How can anyone be so certain of things?
Even this body may not be real, real only
Because I cannot see so many other
Things. My awareness, so limited. Dogs know
More than I ever would, the unseen, smells
Of worlds. They also know about love

Unconditional.
















after a line from Mary Oliver

dear friend

What of the American dream? Now that we all have achieved it.
We find a nomadic part remains. To take so less with us except
What matters in the long journey: feet to carry, body of joy.
Everything else, it seems, merely trappings we have come to
Be accustomed and could not let go. These we have now 
We only dreamed about half a lifetime ago. Something to learn
From the animals we keep: To have nothing else but love

Only so very difficult for us: bearing our simple joys.