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Who will mourn this tree with me?
Who will eulogize this tree?
Who will embrace its thick knotted trunk,
As it ultimately crashes down onto the hard asphalt?
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For all things have turned into words, tasteless, scentless,
Formless, sensationless, meaningless, even wingless.
Staying silent is all that is left then,
Or writing verses about writing poetry. As
A real poet ought to.
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Give me back my hands. Give me back the fields and how they tremble.
Skylark, skylark, the wind is with you. Sleep. And sails. And light.
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it’s not hard to detect
a counterfeit person
there’s nothing to see
when you hold him against the light
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she poured her beer on my head
when i tried to kiss the cross
above her low-cut dress –
i just wanted to touch my lips to
the open wound of christ on her
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walking is my speech
walking is my expression of love
walking – I fall in love and read
this city and
know it – not for long. I’m silent.
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Everything is heading towards resolution,
Most probably it will be atomic.
And there will be neither City,
Nor World,
Just a little baby tooth
In a tin box
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And the river, its fair banks defining,
connecting, place and time, places and times.
Me, here, now, I get the little-hairs-rising-feeling
about a life I haven’t lived, but might.
Poems from the poetry book "Be-hooved", University of Alaska Press, 2019
