Tag Archives: waiting

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.

109. Fieldwork

 

Walking across Wyoming

I fell for you, your curls

sweat plastered, your eyes

changing blue to green, your

flirting with waitresses while

I watched laughing for your shy

young hands hiding. I fell

longing for the touch 

of your brown hand brushing

my brown hand, my bleached

hair tangled in your mistaken 

fingers, exchanging Farka Toure

for Fugazi, breaking

my eardrums, my patience,

my grown wild heart.

 

Days are shrinking now, hit hard

by winds that parch, skinning

sun raw by desert sand

carried. At night I hear radio 

voices clattering between our tents,

restless and urgent. Walking, I see 

fire-cracked rock buried 

beneath sand, the way

our eyes plant explosives through

the unnamed senses. At night

you visit philosophy, torturing

breakfast and still …

 

Spain is one half-assed plan 

to work through winter, one

idea cooked up on a stormy day

of crackling lightning and a missed

tornado. Next, Cuba, but no one liked 

that, not even you knowing

about the whores and cuba libres

and hot sun, hot salt on skin.

Or Argentina has friends waiting,

long digs and pampas like home,

all in Spanish. If we both

rode an airplane to Patagonia

would you even hold my hand

shoo the Latinos from their lust?

Or would you indulge your own for me,

turned south and wild with hunger?

I fell for you like that hail

fell hard to earth last week.

Hug me, miss me.

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.

42. Homesick

The sagebrush and tules miss me.

The cacti cry.

The mountains moan

huddled under white blankets

stained with blue blood and

ripped by treetops.

The dust has cried

until its own tears

have settled its dance.

The wind keens and 

howls across earth

trying to find me,

not finding me,

running east and south

searching the land

for me.

.

I am here,

I whisper–

here I am,

so far north.

The sun, tired of shining

upon my sadness,

climbs only a few feet

above monotonous spruce oceans

before settling back down.

Night is longer than the knife

edge of a sand dune

streaming off toward ribbon clouds.