Tag Archives: beauty

130. Night owl

Because one owl’s soft hoot eases out from the wood,

leaves pause their evening flutter.

The last finch tucks down against a branch.

The only thing moving is that moon, slowly,

slowly rising through velvety dusk.

Now we are all suspended together 

just above the ground of a world’s constant motion,

suspended together in a holy 

state of waiting, 

waiting together, breath

shallow and slowed for absolute silence, 

absolute hope.

 

The faintest reply eventually

drifts in over treetops,

silver light smooth as stone and

no more than the smallest rustle

passed in dying undergrowth,

 

and with the one answering owl’s soft call, 

night is released from its patient

pause, from such

absolute stillness, 

such peculiar hope.

114. Driving to La Arena

One skull knocks against 

the door frame and both dogs

are on their feet, braced through 

arroyos of rocks climbing up 

tires, those aggressive new tires.

Water bags leap and

a cairn creeps past, a trail

spotted like footprints by hooves

of dry cattle crosses.

 

Ocotillo reach right in so

one dog snaps.

Creosote arms swing trying to

reach right in. One dog snaps

and my cigarette swerves.

A hawk spins, black

tips on blue sky like

periods allowed to 

soar across the page,

 

like following this track

nowhere.

 

Sand fills horizon lines with gold.

108. Night Owl

 

One owl’s soft hoot eases out from the wood, and

leaves pause their evening flutter.

the last finch tucks down against a branch.

the only thing moving is that moon, slowly

slowly rising through velvety dusk.

Now we are all suspended together 

just above the ground of a world’s constant motion,

we are all suspended together in a holy 

state of waiting, 

waiting together, breath

shallow and slowed for absolute silence, 

absolute hope …

 

The faintest reply drifts in over treetops.

silver light smooth as stone and

no more than the smallest rustle

passed in dying undergrowth.

 

In one answering owl’s soft voice, 

night is released from its patient

pause, from such

absolute stillness, 

such hope.

73. Tiptoe

Watching him while

he sleeps I

steep myself in the 

tea color of his

skin

vanish in fragile

lashes

hopeless against his

cheek, reappear

stroking long hair off 

a temple

with one of my small fingers.

I memorize the

unusual curve of 

a hip

heft of his dark

testicles

resting promise of

his quiescent 

cock curled

softly.

His sturdy shoulder his

brawny arm draped warm over

me sheltering my 

delicate ribs.

With my weightless

vision I cherish my

lover

astonished,

reverent within all of 

our variances.

22. the attention of soldiers

maybe it was not the jacketed metal

that killed soldiers, not the compressed air

in a vacant pocket of explosion.

maybe those projectiles only

spring through the gauntlet of wandering attention–

the blistered foot, the scratched raw palm chafing

on the salty stock of a worn rifle.

maybe in the window of rainwater

fresh on green-drunk jungle, in the heart-stopping

din orchestra of birdsong falling 

on morning’s delicate daylight, swinging

grass flowing like wind-water

gold as a lit evening in illinois . . .

perhaps it is not precisely the trigger pulled that kills

but the moment between, that of an eyelid flickering, 

side trip to a stop frame of living 

that takes each soldier’s life, 

stolen with calcified indifference

from that blade width of inattention

between the effort of vigilance

and the infinite sensation

of a hunger for beauty.

14. things i miss – 2

out back by the runway

fence, dirty air settling now

cool movement just brushing the

backs of our hands before

the rounds pop, so far away

we’re not sure … is it?

 

is it?

 

then your palm on the back

of my collar, one lift and hard

shove down the narrow

lane between sandbags and

we’re full out, laughing and

fucking well near panic 

to be fair, still, I fall 

headlong and laughing hard

onto my trailer floor, panting.