Poem / 225

He stood waiting for a long time.
The stairs were short, steep
and uneven. All this thinking
does me no good, he thought.
The moments are mistaken for minutes,
for days and weeks and years and death.
A bird flew across his view, reminded
him of the rapidity of a life, assured him
there is no difference between its flying
and his.

Poem / 224

In the early morning, shortly
after waking, something soft
and fierce is found in not knowing
whether the rain is falling, whether water
is clinging to the window, slipping
like fingertips, whether there are clouds
at all, or what holds them together:
tenuous molecules, or blind intention, or string?
A weather of unknowns. The first trembling
reach for movement without speech
or the terrifying music of certainty.

Poem / 223

The chilli plants and I

Drink water together, the three of us

Watching the moon.