the owl in the cemetery
begins hooting at dusk
before the dark settles
I walk there then
to begin the end of the day
with its constant attempts
at certainty and security
its rush to be done
I tend to how
trees winter
how they humble me
to bud
to begin
let it seep in
like a spring rain
let your self
green
a poem
arranges itself
into being
the cosmos
into a single
leaf
a body
into somebody
original
it’s late
I’m debating whether or not
to sit with the title of this new poem
in hope something more than a title
will come I wait
knowing my tiredness will win
if I rest
the poem will visit another
hoping to grow
into something awake
with attention and
live to the touch
good night
waiting
for a train to somewhere
they’ve never been
play
a game of chance
with each other
in time
they unknow
themselves
once on board
the train that never arrives
their stories
separate
but now
inseparable
never
stop
coming
wait, wait
I am not ready yet
let me wander
where no one thinks they know me
it will come to me
as I do
to know who
is telling
my
story
it happens
when I am not looking
when slightly to the left
of Eden
to the right
of loneliness
it is over
before
before
every Thursday
our friendship ends
and begins
the table
an old wheel
some bread
some wine
the change
eludes us
who can separate
us
who can know
this
from now
to now
the door
stands
open
to be with
is all
no need
to explain further
her coming
or his
what happens then
if we
can be still
together
long enough
to let nothing
happen
is enough
for us
I am on
a bridge
I will not
stay
I can go
either way
be safe
be free
I am
the bridge