going

before they all fall, fail and disappear~



how we are

brief, barely rooted, life



pink

for no other reason

than two lips together

are so damned sweet

early morning curtain

on the other side of this curtain a woman sits frozen permanently (in my mind) on a chair beside tables of stuff for sale representing years and countless memories.  i can pretend i know what happens on the other side of the curtain knowing this, but these few elements are not enough for knowledge.

on this side of the curtain time ceases to exist as i open my mouth

and



small green leaves before the wind takes them

i am a small green leaf

between the trees

there is something in between the trees. and i don't mean in between each individual pine, or between the pine and the tamarack.  i mean there is a place between the tree and itself being the tree, that i recognize from a timeless self, a self so young i don't know time yet.  i recognize this place.  it speaks out from my chest.  and it speaks inwardly, as well.  driving through the forest i hear this voice.

where skin meets inanimate meets new life

did you know that it is only soil and water that make the tree? 
 you take one page of soil and pass it like velum over one page
of water.  and what of babies, my soiled page to your water-
shed, verso to recto?  what springiness results then, what
 uncoiling life! what of poetry? what of that?  what of
murmurings and half remembered dreams?  what is more
real, my leg or the chair?  what if we were to crumble the
page of my leg and plant it inside the page of the chair? 
what would be born then?  what books?  what verse? 
what life?

curtain and mirror

in a photograph

where does the importance lie,

the value?

is it distinctly inside of the frame,

or is it that which is suggested? 

what about in poetry?

what about in life?

how i am i

where do we look

and what do we see?

what choices are we making and why?

 

yes, the world is here

it is as real as a stone or a forest

but inside of that forest

(and even inside of that stone)

there is an infinitude of choice

this
everything we choose to see

this is us being us