The Last Line

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.

 

 

 

horror vacui

 

The mango’s mottled orange and red, the sunset.

Black brush strokes on the black ground in the chapel.

Filling the air with a rising song, even the sparrow

Shuns silence and shoulders space. In any room,

I see only you (and in your absence, the memory

Of you).  This is our condition: The vines formed

By knots in the warp and weft lead to themselves

Until they cover the floor, the medallion our Center,

The lamps our Beginnings and Endings. Each lotus

Is a moment, the script a written future I can’t read.

Is there more? You may reflect on the fabric as time,

Or flesh, or matter—-you  may consider the knot

Eternal. You may consider connections: This mango,

Rothko’s brush, a sparrow, the carpet, all of you.

 

 

Bruises

 

The veneer of bruise blue on the sea is deceiving:

The long, long memory under the surface of things,

Unfathomable. You think you see a mark of pain

On the skin, but it’s a system, a mechanism, a seal.

The ocean, the memory, the body will heal.

 

 

Love Song

 

Your voice in my blood, the nerves thrum—

I know who you are, and you respond

By singing even more to me about you.

I have, I have you. . .You are, you are:

Raise your eyes to the sudden flight

Of starlings on the wind: The sound

Of your breathing. The gold curve

Appears, the sun rising: My first

Glimpse. The touch of ocean air after

Long absence: Your skin. I have a feeling

I will always find you, no matter how far.

 

 

Too Far West

 

A lost oriole, and I’m reminded to reorient

Myself: Any storm can drive us off course.

I can see new vast horizons: They disappear

On my approach. It’s an excellent thing,

The disappearance West, the constant setting.

Vishnu the Preserver is called the Sleeper

On the waters—-I emerge from time, fold

The past into now as it slips away eternally.

The oriole is lost, but it’s evening in the city

And the day must end no matter where

 

I am.

 

 

 

Subject/Object

 

Like the bow flowing over the cello

Strings, the blood moves through the soul.

I hold the first berry of Summer,

An economy of Spring. Its seeds

Will never know soil, but I will

Recompense with this praise of sweetness

In the thing consumed. The tender

Understanding of the tongue:

Experience Itself.  The body

Of our love is a body of memory.

 

 

 

What the Eagle Said

 

The river fills with snowmelt, and egrets fish

While the drone of the overpass surrounds

Us, unheard. I’m pondering the similar nature

Of our labors (theirs and mine): The slow quiet

Patience of our Vigilance: We will wait

And the moment will come, give itself

Away with a silver flash and we will strike.

When the sudden shadow of an eagle slides past,

It touches me, the water, the egrets, with black;

We all look up in alarm. I catch the eagle’s slanting

Glance and he dips a wing, wheels above and says,

 

It’s windy in the aerie. This is no time for rest.