Empty space

As the eye wanders – what of it?
What of the curl of lip, cheek and eye,
spurring invention of plot, snapping at vision’s edge,
out of some irrepressible need?
That need unspoken, with space enough
in the inbetweenness of not knowing
anything outside this moment
where the pollen-scent of tears
and the heart’s unspoken dialect
become instead a silent film. Impeccably
smooth, this substitute for life, story.
Cutting the day on the bias allows
for stretching, stitching in enough
that the mind, brewing in all directions,
can tell itself that it has reached
the circle’s edge and understands,
when it has only drawn close.


Spring Rains (15 November)

Under open branches to grasp a falling
Apple saved from memory’s dappled traces,
Whose hundred blotted flaws or our recalling
Reveal sorry scars in blistered spaces.

Oh but these are winding tracks that stick
Like tea leaves to the cup’s cracked skin
Left out in yesterdays wept over, slick
With oily film a residue so thin

We barely notice its searing sting
This fresh-lit fire, palm-burning, soul-dropping
Wrenching away the song we sing,
No melody accompanies this lopping

Of another limb, another track lies
Blackening these salted fields, inking
This orchard dark against knowing eyes,
Spring rains make rivulets of our thinking.