The Old Mule

Twenty Fourth

Well, a year is almost behind me. The falling of another length of time. A cut of rope. I have books and papers and movies, but something is not right here. There is a journey to go, I am sure. But I can not discern the proper direction, and that kindles worry and unease - self doubt. Diffidence.

Japan, China, Brazil...back to the clouded coast. There is much to be done. Much to be thought through. I have had enough of this city life, this talking between bites. Why not today? Why not...

There is process in departure, a way of setting up before letting go. It is hasty to ford a stream without a stick. But the river is rising. The river is rising....

McMinnville

I drove to Tennessee
and walked across the
coldest blue parking lot
I have ever known,
set in for an evening
of plastic menu steak house
and the hum of a cabled tv.

The old man offered
me breakfast
but I knew he was used
to a cold stomach,
so I made do
with crackers and we drove
around looking at his trees.

On the way past
the mill, by the river
of course, he told me
it was either farming
or factory work. And it had
been a better life
out in the hills –
that is how he said it,
like it was already over.

His driveway was
steep and my bumper hit
as I descended. Passed
the local kids cruising
in hot tuned sports cars,
a thud of bass, and jeans
wound tight over thighs.
And my car crept
past, out of tune
and foreign plates.

I drove home as
fast as I could
because we had just met
and all that was
caught up in my mind,
and I could not wait to
get back beside you.

The New Year

I long to be
on your trail again,
half-eyed and balanced
with the stoic freeze
of a crafted bust,
lingering in Rome. And
you speak of those steps –
how could we ever meet there
with the flow of these bodies
the salted swell of
summer and our feet
neat in leather boots.
We are not from the city.
But this is where we rest.
Come to me,
is that your curve
or a quick shadow
announcing some other body’s
approach. Your arms are
thin with winter, you feel
clouds pull across the sea,
and your shape is deftly drawn.
Shade turned in, visage
erased. Do not leave me
in the hands of such people.
Where once they spoke
in song, I am left
listening, up and down the
city blocks, turning my
ear to the earth
listening and waiting.

From An Airport

Now, with a push
I am off. But not without
my pictures…the tiles
that place themselves
into my cavern
of hearts. Not that!

Not the blood. But
the feeling of health
when departure brings
sadness. This is a true thing –
a portion of all
we are meant to be.

For instance, the pull
of a body placed
mid-stream,
rotating in turnstiles,
that cold metal
and the energy of an
object at rest.

We can only travel up,
and our precious
worlds
held in such esteem
smolder in
our fumbling grasp.
The talk of next year
is almost too much.

It is time
to gather the fields
and make haste, make
haste for the
block-bricked chimney
and a moment
to thaw our recollections.

It is the leaving, I tell you,
that demands we stay.

The Year Two-Thousand

This is the hour of Lead —
Remembered, if outlived
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow —
First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —

- E. Dickinson

The scent of your brine
thick hair gather me in like
fish on the fissures,
heat rising and the gentle
dance of our poles -
shifting, as they do,
north from south.

Submerged by rain, yet
we carry forth half way
to the new world. And in
shocks of illumination
I find my knees sunk
in forests of kelp, and your
generous form cracking
with the snap of timbers.

What of the backfin on the
coral trout or the swift nuzzle
of a swell shark? Our breath
carries us fathoms deep,
and our feet are downward
guides of solid lead. What of
those fish, and our route
through this sea?

"Drop, drop, our ears undone"...
this is the song of the bottom
dwellers, safe in their hive
of blackness. Take me in hand,
let us cease now this timely
departure, release our heaviest
hooks, unburden the sails
and head for air.

The Atlantic

I drove across the world
to hear the steam rise
up from our core. And
standing there with my feet
crossed, back against a rail,
I knew that this time I had
fallen through. Because at
night I would shut my eyes
to the whirl of fireworks
and frying meat. Processions
would march across my eyelids
heavy with crosses and sheets
tied into togas. But this was no Rome.
I was hunkered in the basement
of a French laundry
reams of starch white paper
and an idea to stir about amid
the hard pruned Plane trees
and absorb the nightish hollows.
If you don't know what I mean,
you have not yet lived. Because the
frisson of middle Europe --the
quivering landmarks all pointing
East, hats bowed to Constantinople,
that wild traffic and blue dome,
river cut, our world settled
into maps and numbers --
perched, that is, between people.
A perfect duality. And I knew the
attendant  at the coffee house would
certainly have a paper and some tea.