The Last Line

Remembering August in November

 

The season of brown grass, of burnt leaves,

Still on the limb. Even the sky is bleached

A blue-tinted white; the very air smells hot.

The glass of ice water sweats itself slick.

I remember the cicada song in the morning,

The sound of the rising sun, a sound like haze

In the brain. Little anoles emerge, scramble

Up the fences, flare brilliant green to scare

Off rivals. The laughing gulls don’t care about

The time of year—there is no weight on the wing.

The shirt sticks on the back, and you must run

Across the sand, fast as you can, as you burn.

When I’m complaining about the weather then,

I’ll remember November mists in August for now.

 

 

The Human Breast

 

We impose on one another, & it is but lost time to converse with you whose works are only Analytics.

                                                    --Blake

 

And when You said to me, I am not a daemon,

I did not understand, because I heard the word

Instead of seeing it. Some go between, You

Meant. An intermediary. The shape of things

Shifts: The twisted thread around my wrist into my

Own desire. The flock of starlings, like chips

Of soot: My frightened heart. If I distract

The line between Us, it will dissolve, but I think

I am not safe. (You are not, You say.) A chorus

Is what’s needed, something to clarify the plot,

Restrain the unknown. No. What if the moment

Slides over into oblivion? No. I may find pain,

Or a saint’s ecstasy; a Form I cannot abide.

I may go past seeming, but find no being. No. I.

 

 

Citta

 

The peregrine slides among the building

Shadows, climbs, looking for finches. She cries

As she flies (a puzzling policy), warns

Prey and crows alike. The light is under

Her wings, crossing the sun, and “Horus” makes

Sense to me: tawny wing, white-gold light,

And 12:18 merge, a particular

Moment, placing me right here to make it

An event, so seamless. By the time I’ve

Sorted all this out, she’s gone, like insight.

What was it? Out of sight, I hear the falcon cry.

 

Crow says to Falcon, See how deeply

I absorb the light, how my back swallows

Sun! I am a hole in the blue sky, yet glancing

Blue myself, so black am I. Falcon shrugs,

Tilts her head, pushes off the branch in pursuit,

Pursued herself—Crow is not satisfied!

As Falcon flies, she cries, You are shadow I cast.

 

 

 

Distortion

 

I’m not thinking of an ending, yet. Another

Cup of coffee—there’s no end to those, no

Penultimate Cup. Taking part in the next

Breath, I pay no attention to how it starts.

The guitar on the radio keeps a syncopated

Pace with the singer, bending notes out

Of sweetness into dirt, sending shivers

Down my. . .Spirit finds a path like rivers,

Down to something. You can, now, think of

Where it ends, or where you came from.

Or moan with the guitar, out of tune,

Into a new, nameless twisting of you.

 

 

 

Tuesday, Green and White

 

Morning sun through the open kitchen window

Ripens the bowl full of mangos and tomatoes.

The sparrows bicker on the neighbor’s roof.

Slices of fennel on the cutting board---A soft,

Clean smell. Clocks on the stove, the wall,

The microwave in harmony with the fridge hum,

The Summer Solstice. Grass widens the cracks

In the concrete, bit by bit, as I make more coffee,

Plan. For the purposes of this poem, it is July

(Or it is July), and so the sun lingers over L.A.

And gives us all the sweet illusion of more time:

An allowance, so we can know the sparrow’s

Chirp and the smell of fennel better, acquaint

Ourselves with the moment of the knife.

 

 

The Lesson in the Garden

 

There is the inhale, without intention. Exhale, same.

When the monarch wavers over the lavender,

Where is its will? Your eyes shining with the new

Experience of mastery, my student, make me

Hesitate. Do you know before this moment I had

Decided to leave it? The monarch alights,

And I awaken: I have taught you to listen. You

Have taught me to teach. These things were here

From the first, but they were like breathing---

Because I did not summon them, invisible as air.

The distance between my metaphors shortens, so

Mark: The butterfly is a graceful master of effortless

Understanding. The teacher is the student. There is

No waiting to receive. There is only gratitude.