sink the stone and watch
ripples through solar systems
streaming white reflections

without the humans
pedaling along like
ants following paths
the redwoods still stand
still and mighty and feeling
the faintest breeze and dampest
touch of the birds nestled between
branches
never moving unprovoked or uncaused
they wait for nothing because there is
nothing to a redwood but the earth and the sun and
the rain and the ants still pedaling between grooves in her
hardened flesh, no wringer so efficient and wise *******
fallen water and moist air through the tips of toes and out into
the world above the wood ceiling so green and full and bourgeoning
life into the lungs of the moving types unable to stand still and breathe
and watch their god turn miracles by unspoken stories of growth and sheltering
persistence and resolve to manufacture life and color from dirt and water and air so
quietly respired

I met her in a line
for expensive coffee
picked by honest hands
she wore a scarf
from morocco where she
had never been or smelled
she says her name as if
her mind were elsewhere
so I smile and nod and turn
and look at the ground
thinking of pink stratus clouds

wind hums slow
passing over
sitting gently atop
the bent grass
yellow and dead
the wind
acts too late
to conjure ocean and sea
the ground is bare
and dead and
tired

I wrote a note
time ago

it was short but
important

in a thick notebook
on some page
now forgotten

I will find
it eventually

sunday drives
and write two poems
somewhere cold
spark a cigarette
on the rock by the river
thrown horizon gazes
and unmediated shivers;
call the old friend
and say goodbye too soon
as if these colors are real
as if these colors bend over
time somewhere far off –
spark another cigarette
watching the smoke dwindles
tangle with clouds of breath
kicking lost stones with
curved ridges as if their old
stories could be understood
in ripples pulled downstream;
ice river
swept fractals and
white reflections alone
affront crumbling mirrors
and fragile glass
I’ll take an ice cube over
this diamond any **** time
and live a king in some frozen land
smoking cigarettes watching
colors blend across night sky
between specks and galaxies
and distant life –
some man kicking stones
alone by a flowing mirror
cursing dull embers and
wet feet

I don’t know how deep
I am in this idea

the crazy man ***** on the train

I don’t know how deep
this tunnel goes
I don’t know how far back –
he looks past my eyes:
I don’t know how rapt
I am in this maze of strayed greetings;
I am in outer space
I don’t know how deep

the crazy man cracks his crazy back
and spits

I still don’t know –
in this vestibule
where the days go,
how far the days go;
the alphabet starts and ends
I don’t know what darkness tastes like,
feels like:
I don’t know why this train bends –
why that tall woman sits staring,
why he paces,
yelling at dark glass

the crazy man is still crazy
a few rows ahead


but
I am easily asleep;

lost in pink
sunset clouds