Drink from it, that pearly blackness,
Instructed the trees; towering
Dark spires bleeding upward.
Not ominous, but cynical, like
They’ve seen this all before.

Take it as it is, they insisted.
No, don’t think of her, not now,
nor him, nor him, nor her.
Stop passing the buck
From your field; let it graze.

Don’t be embarrassed to be
That wounded deer. They
Offered some gesturing limbs
Towards your lunar embankment,
But refused further comment.

I sat there awhile, the low shrubs
Rubbing shoulders, greasy-palmed
Handshaking as if placing bets on
How long I’d last, How long it’d be
Before I drank from that pearly blackness.

My hexagon’s long gone out.
The wax we stole off petticoats and
Barnacles liberated from the hulls of boats
Turned honey from the stress; fermenting
There, amongst the mess of our salty wares.
And
It wasn't long before the bee’s came drifting,
Pollen ridden beggars with empty bowls worn
Like terracotta crowns, souls freed from their
Geometric cells—And Love, that howling beast,
Not content to ring one lonesome bell, rather
An
Orchestra of buzzing offbeats. Chimes
Let resonate to some queen frequency,
A cheesecloth hive; a makeshift bag of tea.
Let it steep—Just be— Aware of the metaphor
That can be drawn between you and I:
A
Honeycomb kingdom of orderly
Disorder. The halls composed of sound:
A knock-knock-knocking rain. A circle coming
‘round. A muse, the notion of patterned chaos:
The fluid markings of Jade; rigid wood grain.

This world’s a plum blossom
Bound to fall in its blooming.
Ten thousand leaves shivering
for the trunks sappy *****.

In attempts ill, to arrive:
A syllogism, best left unsaid.
Peace known only by the dead
And those that cease their striving

For the fall is easy, the road
Slippery. To abstract in words
Seems simple, yet birds
Don’t cling to their branched abode.

Nor should we, our own constructions
Lest we rouse misconception from its place
Kiss it square on its blemished face
And with it, bury our logical deductions.

For the Zazen mats are warmed
Not by the coals but fact:
The world is burning with emptiness
What’s left to do, but the dishes?

Smelled you while reading
Dickinson, in the sun.
First day of spring.

Missed the bus, walking
Book in hand, thinking of yew
Trees down the street
and whether they’re cold.

O’ fruit of winter, burning
up my vine—sowing,
Seeds of spring; sprung
from flaked necessity,
along the byways and the
Water’s edge trembles
not there but—
Somewhere, you hear a sound
not unlike your name and shift
in your seat wondering
how veiling words can be, and
the day’s heat like some archaic prayer
the purpose long forgotten, but
its effect ever apparent.

Saw a pair walking down
the street. Her hopping,
Him hoping—holding a
Cigarette Poised,
A gymnast balanced
Between shaky fingers.