some people sit

squarely in the


world, an umlaut

atop an accolade.


it strikes me suddenly as

i flit on this splitting branch


that i know    nothing.


i watch people watching

me watching them:


a wizened man cursing the

maze he must maneuver;


a leering lit professor,



i wonder what they see when

they    look-glance    through me:


the nesting couple



the absent-minded mother

gripping the hour.


the über-weight of the rare

gaze-landing, the heady fleeting


feeling that    we are one.


words, bodies, clouds

Dear God, thank you for this day.


Prayers often begin with these words.

I heard these words in my parents’

prayers all the days of my childhood.


And now, I say them in my good-night

prayers with my child, often after the

day is breathed and lived and done.


The words have become such habit

that I don’t stop to think about the

meaning of them; the heaviness and light:


This day; this. here. now.


It didn’t have to happen, this day. At the

very least, it didn’t have to happen to me.


And yet, here it is.


What am I going to do with it?

What am I not going to do?

With whom will I do/not do these things?


Is it really a matter of doing, or can

I just be here in this brand new day?


And the thank you prayer-part?  A deep

gratefulness for another set of full breaths,

heart pumps, visions, touches, sound bites.


The human body is a mystery-marvel. On the

outside, it is aging along with the rest of the

world; on the inside, it is aging more quietly.


At the very core, it is a living raging eternal star cloud

just waiting to be joined with other star clouds.


sun day

i wake to morning light

communion breeze

song birds

child safe, asleep


openness, forgiveness: a

gentle bringing together of

dream-forgetting and

kind remembrance;


even the pairs of

mother-child fighting

outside my window are

pieces of mirrored divinity


attending to each of

these gifts gathered here

with the senses i have received

i partake in a humble holiness


this is my church

and inside i am the

minister, choir, and body

of the word of God



every one keeps trying to hand

me so many styles of shoes.


i like the little quiet of

bare feet.


like being wed

to a cocoon,     held


in its soft meta



openness: whilst

outside cloth-lantern


windows, people buzz-opining


for the tallest,

sharpest heels.


how can you have

laws of war?


how can you not?

fire wall


think with the body

every thing

is in a state of



loose lips

living works


everything is in a state of change


energy. matters.

the noun moves the verb:


makes love to its

self not in sex but in

love-thinking down

to its center


particle by particle

until the sum of its

loud quiet parts tips

a hand and for one


evening-span makes

a slip of sense.



the valve of the unvitiated moment


she knows that this is a floating

time on a floating ship, that she is

the floating, not the ship, nor the

captain, and that every thing outside of


time and space is the static pulled

taut across seas that hangs gray

garments in place and occasionally

dances and sings and means; in the valve


of the unvitiated moment she sees

the delicate moving of a good and

gentle quiet, like the breath of moth

wings against a hungry breeze.

and then

perched on a still point

ready to pivot


after whirl-wind years spent

trying to outrun grief


slate blue hand

held over tired


heart; mouth-moved

legs and panic


some climb

some dive

some incubate

some die


within all lies

the spirit to survive


and then,

to fly