In the garden out back
I used to gather up leaves,
looking like burnt flames
crisping up on my lawn.

The sun had stained them
from springtime children
to tarnished stars, waiting
on the ground for my dance.

They would  blush for me
and crackle in delight
as I pirouetted around
then eagerly pounced,

piling up a nest so then
as the winter wind came,
roughly rubbing my cheek,
I'd sit there with sandwiches.

Knowledge is knowing
that you've always been seeking
Whereas wisdom is
realizing that seeking
is never-ending

I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending
I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
is just lending
I & I
for while
for to smile

Shhh
Shhhhh
I'm silent still
go back cat
to windowsill
that is that
the black will fill
my eyes
and i'll have no disguise
to hide behind
so lie will I
until
I cry
it OUT

and light!
oh light
so guiding
so graceful
a gift
is only as sweet
as the way
you embrace it

I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending

High tide, high
time for an afternoon spent
chaired, head up and fallen, eyes
open and closed to the fresh list of
life goals: to marry, live surrounded
by nature, spin songs, pluck
poems, to be a good
grandfather

and how best to get there is a
matter of opinion

no sense lame-
nting about the era or
frowning at the tele-
vision that's gone
blind from so many
tears shed over
nonsense, no
senses to eat
out this hollow
mind the fire, you'll
catch cold this
fall to the
leaves

It's like a pit (a
massive gap in the thoughts that
unsettles you)

and (lest your resolve be crushed to
a fine powder suitable only for the most
tasteful framing)
saturates conversation like a
virus

but there's a problem with this
invitation, if only to

convince yourself the gap is
useful, (that it's a landmark of
sorts, a real treasure, why not
picnic next to it, make up stories
and holidays and marvel at the
obvious ingenuity of the earth in
creating such a beautiful loss)

at the end of the festival, (when the
streamers have faded and
the food lies stale, when the cars have
herded their people home for the
night and the moon reclaims
her sky from clingy weathermen)

it is still a hole, (and you might
fall in).

The darkness of the earth
And darkness of the sky
Are distinguished by the lines
of beaded light
that run across the edges of our eyes.
The steering wheel twists
Listlessly between the lanes
Of sleep and gasoline dreams.

The beauty of blank minds
is seen only in reflections
From the rear view mirror.
Our pavement demons
Sear in a stranger's headlights:
The Berlin wall stands re-erected
out of trees intertwined
With the night.
The circulatory glow of red,
bright against the black asphalt,
our driver's lullaby.

Seas of blindness illuminate
The distance wheels can fly