The gravel trail is level but frailty comes
quickly on a slow walk
around Sylvia Lake, I rest on a bench
between two old cedars, memory dies
into fog over the lake.
How did I get here? The dream fades
to dust, I reincarnate, recycle,
rebear affliction, this is the next life
again, a stepping stone.
I'm encumbered with bristly parasites,
vermin and pests happily survive
on essential body fluids cycling
through my organs. I manage the offenders,
send them on to a better existence,
I'm the aggressive mortician with traps and toxins,
stalking the droning, buzzy flies.
Squashed, they come back as graceful swallows
ingesting droning, buzzy flies.
Crumpled spiders are wrens in the next life
crumpling spiders. I think on Sedge Baker
coming back as a paving stone.
Sunday, September 05, 2010
Saturday, September 04, 2010
from a small pallet
I write this and that
or that and this
the price of a bottle of wine
feeds me for a day,
or sleeps away the small ache
November winds blow
soft rain with a hard edge
the perfect idleness
of watching twilight gather –
a plover calls
a good place
to dump the body –