The stepchildren of passion
bear the selfsame fruit of their
parentage...disowned by their own volition,
till becoming...incrementally dying
aspirants of dispassion.
I think of St. Francis, St. Francis
I think of you often.

The opening act
hither-thither-ed, chasing
Her medium...the closing
act hither-thither-ed,
chasing Her medium.
Leaving off where She
started... with imperfectly
perfect memory.

Body, O  body
steady...staving off
the storm of Always,
(no tree, no forest sounded)
...a perfect calm...
when blown down.

While on hands and
knees, pulling weeds
from the ground...
I thought that this how
it is...a succession of
larger and larger hands
pulling life out of life
ad infinitum.

Erupting in uproarious
laughter, while asking
another to pass the
salt shaker...
in this
Unutterable Ocean.

As absolute an effect
as the strange
trading apparency with
the normal...
dead center of dead
of center, at dawn the
crosswalk is already
fading into sunset...with
uncharacteristic lucidity.
As if something coming to,
at the right place of no-place...
at the right time of no-time.