Your spirit is a shadow
        lingering
                made of light

Your spirit is a shadow
        growing longer
                into night

Your spirit is a shadow
        none can capture
                all can see

Your spirit is a shadow
                set free

We drink water once swallowed by Jesus.
We breathe atoms once blown by Buddha.
We share the light of stars
     with unknown beings
     on undiscovered planets.
For this light, this water and air,
     this brotherhood
     of countless souls
we give thanks.

Terry and I climb a different hill today,
a narrow trail
weaving among wildflowers
where we search for an old water intake,
finding rusty pipe but no collection box.
Mountain plumbing is constant crisis
as storms re-engineer the landscape
while three hundred houses wait to wash.
Terry, you should know, operated
the water system for years and years
in our old hippie town.

Moving on,
we walk around the former reservoir
that collapsed in the winter of ’82.
Now that was a crisis.
I say I used to come to this hilltop
every day at sunset with my dog
to meet a woman and her dog.
Terry says thirty or forty years ago
he used to come to this hilltop
every solstice to drop acid with his buddies.
“When was the last time you took LSD?” I ask.
“Last week,” Terry says.

Terry, you should know, is seventy-two
with cardiac plumbing that has
weathered a few storms.
He says the trips are milder now, sweeter,
like spring-water from the little glen
on the hill above his cabin,
gurgles out slowly
but worth the wait,
at the end of that trail
only you and I know.

Infant of painful belly
sleeps only when held upright,
gently bounced,
seeking skin contact,
the family scent, family touch,
flesh to flesh.
My daughter, so tired,
new mother, must rest.

Men need to do things. At least, I do.
The porch rail remains half-built,
the truck idles roughly,
not this evening’s chore.
Just as I once rocked my daughter, now
her babe sleeps with warm little cheek
against my stubbly old,
hot puffs of breath
on my grainy neck.

Some day, grandson, you may wear
my scent of sweat, sawdust, motor oil.
For now you smell of milk, mommy, peace.
Life is so basic with a baby:
doing nothing, giving comfort,
the work of love.

Grant me deep roots.
Solid branches.
Let the fires pass me by.
Let generations of squirrels and blue jays
     hop on my limbs.
Let me breathe fog, chew sunlight
     and look down
over centuries.

I remember
school days
as the Beatles
swept America
our first kiss
sitting on
a playground
jungle gym
past midnight.
I had planned
that kiss
for days but never
expected such
lingering
sweetness
I can taste
yet all these
years.

Our wedding
the rebels
changing
the world
you said
kissing
was corny
so I didn't.
Afterwards
always
my regret.
They threw
corny old
rice.
I was
delighted.
Some pleasures
are a
complete
surprise.

black trees, silent stars
did you see? a meteorite!
life, infinite night

Raccoon tapping on the windowpane
Fuzzy beggar, growing tame
Evenings longer, midnights colder
     My love and I
     Just a little bit older

Quarter moon above the trees
Wind blows softly, rustling leaves
Would you love me if I lost my hair?
     No, my dear
     And don't you dare

Dog curling up by the potbelly stove
Whiskers peek from the old mouse hole
Grandma's quilt has a brand new patch
     No more cookies
     Or I'll get fat

Rocking chair got a squeak again
Sniff the air, smells like rain
Horned owl hoots from out the wood
     I believe
     All life is good

Before I die I want to know
All the winds and why they blow
All the forests, every stream
     Why you smile, babe
     When you dream

My daughter says
every tree has a soul.
Some are good, some are bad.
But always, a soul.
My daughter is young enough
to know these things.

My daughter says also
some trees have a spirit.
(But only the good trees.)
People, too.
She is old enough
to say these things.

Guided by spirit, we can grow
from the crack in a boulder.
We can lift sidewalks.
We bend and yet are strong.
We flower, we bear fruit, we give seed.
We are where the raccoon sleeps,
the hawk nests, the monkeys play.

Without the spirit we twist,
we wither, we break.
With the spirit our roots take hold.
My daughter knows. So young, so old.

His speech is rough,
his work is smooth.
Wait.
Don’t make him talk.

His tools can maim
or make an angel.
He has wrinkles like wood grain,
memories like wood scraps.
Wait, and he’ll carve one.

The stories come
gnarled, with knotholes.
Listen.  
He chuckles like a chisel
working old walnut.

At your breast he likes to play
     dive-for-the-******.
Like an Olympian on the high platform
     he rears back,
     contemplates the distance,
     the object,
then lunges.

Today he grabs his own hair, pulls.
     And screams.
The more he pulls, the more he screams
     until I unclutch his fingers.

Don’t we all wish sometimes
     a big hand would swoop down
     to unclutch us
     from our mistakes?
Then, oh! to rear back
     and lunge
at life’s big love.

badge
     of birth

face
     in a hole

begging
     kisses

basket of lint
     pool of perspiration

dried flower
     in soft hair

bath time
     bubbles gather

touch of your mother
     for life

Timmy Ray, poor boy from Kentucky.
Football scholarship.
Degree in Business Administration.
Respectable job, bored.
Enlists with best friend in Marines as a macho trip.
Vietnam, what a crock.
This ain’t football. And it ain’t fair.
Schemes to get out,
ignores an order to go out on patrol,
******* mission, but the friend goes,
gets shot up bad.
Timmy Ray runs out to help the friend, is shot.
It’s all blood and mud, man, blood and mud.
Friend paralyzed, Timmy Ray okay.
Court-martial for Timmy Ray, discharge.
The friend takes an overdose.
“No moral here,” Timmy Ray says. “My
war story. That’s all.”

Timmy Ray makes sculptures, big metal things.
No people.
“The human body’s been done,” he says.
Downtown Detroit in front of an office
he welds a pile of globes,
names it “Love” so he’ll get paid
but he says it’s really “Moose Brain.”
These days, Timmy Ray’s hand
trembles. He volunteers at a suicide
hot line. No moral there,
either. Moose brain.

From this tree, they lynched John T,
for the crime of speaking
against slavery. Dead now, this spar
stands among Holsteins
in the pasture of a man
who figures we’re cousins somehow.
He, a midwestern farmer,
me, a California craftsman,
political poles apart
but blood is thicker than geography.

Ancient black walnut
hollowed by rot is tough to salvage.
Working together with chain saw
and wrecking bar we find a section
of solid core, and on the surface
a scar like a grinning face
where the branch broke off,
long gone one hundred fifty years,
the branch that held the rope
that swung John T’s three hundred and fifty
pounds of muscle and fat and bluster
until it snapped.

John T, who was the grandfather
of my grandfather, ran into the forest
where his best friend rescued him,
a man named, ironically, Lynch,
grandfather of the grandfather
of the man with whom I speak.
Thus, cousins — in the country way.

I’ll make salad bowls, I say,
wooden forks and tongs,
walnut plates, maybe even a tea set
for your daughter
who seems so outspoken,
so feisty and strong.
Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern!

So here it is.
The grinning knot on the surface.
Those holes in the side, from bullets.
Lead slugs. I dug them out.
Here, this cloth sack.
May she heft them in her fist.
May her words
fire like cannons
for freedom.

You, my old companion,
I’ve junked three trucks and still I keep you.
Buried five dogs. Raised three children
who are now raising children.
And still I wear you.

You jingle when I walk.
Nails clink in pouches.
The drill in its holster slaps my leg.
The hammer in its clip spanks my ****.
You bristle with screwdrivers, chisel,
big fat pencil, needlenose plier.
You call attention. Random kids
who have never seen a tool belt before
follow me around asking
“What are you doing?”
Then: “Can I help?”

You smell like me (and I, like you).
Leather, fourth decade.
I’ve washed your pouches with saddle soap,
sewn your seams with dental floss.
Now the web of your belt is fraying,
wrapped (silly, I know) with duct tape.

Your pockets fill over time.
Once in a while I remove every tool,
every last ***** and nail.
I hold you upside down and shake.
Sawdust, a dead spider, little strippings
of insulated wire will fall out.
And once, my missing wedding ring.
It had broken. I had taken it to a jeweler
for repair, but when I got there
I couldn’t find it. A year later,
you coughed it up.

When your webbing finally snaps,
when you drop from my waist,
maybe it’s you, old tool belt, I’ll take
to the jeweler for remounting,
for buff and polish. He’ll understand.

Riding in my backpack
chattering gibberish
she charms the man
who is in a good mood
so he repairs my typewriter
     on the spot, no waiting,
     for two six-packs of Bud.
He throws in a free ribbon, too.
“Don’t tell Boss,” he says, winking
at my daughter, who is as yet
too innocent
of her power.

The carpenter in one glance
undresses the house
with his eyes.
She, a Victorian dame
of voluptuous frame
in faded, ragged dress
seems to blush
at his appraisal.

He yearns to explore
intimate spaces,
strip her pretension,
commit filthy acts
hammering skillfully
with strange pleasure,
the work of hands,
attention to detail,
rubbing sweet oils
her inner beauty revealed.

It will end in soft strokes
a thoughtful cleanup
leaving an afterglow
of rejuvenation.
Her timbers moan
with anticipation.

No kiln yet fired
could ever bake
a ceramic as elegant,
as (yes) beautiful,
as (I can only guess) pleasant to hold
as yourself.

Four old men, digging a grave
on a hillside
one with a pick, two with shovels
all with stories
passing them around
stories, pick, shovels
taking turns
not a single earthworm in this ****** soil
plenty of rocks.

Don is the oldest, at eighty-plus
a good man with a pick
breaking, pulling clods of clay.
After thirty years in a
San Quentin prison cell,
he’s walked across the USA
three times. Big guy, gray ponytail,
not one wrinkle on that copper body,
power of a bronco
behind gentle eyes.

Terry is bald, seventy-plus,
in the Air Force he was trusted
with nuclear launch codes,
then thought better of it and hit the road,
dirt-bike racer, merry prankster,
grinning beatnik, psychedelic dancer,
always good with tools
wields a shovel like a pencil
writing the hole
as a poem.

David is almost seventy,
bearded like a prophet,
wizard of China
raised like a farm boy,
adventures in Alaska,
heroic high school English teacher,
telepathic with animals and teenagers,
can speak to horses
in haiku.

Digging is therapy.
A hard job, the work of death.
A time for muscle and sweat,
our language of grief.
We joke, I’ll dig your grave
if you’ll dig mine.

We agree, each canine
has an individual personality
but also each carries
dog spirit. As one leaves
you welcome another
different, individual
but the dog spirit renews
rejoins your life
making you whole.

On this land already
I’ve buried four dogs, two cats.
Dakota will make five,
good company.
Terry says “When Dakota arrives
in doggy heaven or wherever
dogs go, she’ll report
there are good owners here.”
A good review
on doggy Yelp:
Fear not, next puppy.

Four old men, digging a grave
on a hillside
among spirits.

so naturally I would do anything
when she invited me to her room
bolted the door
sat on the bed with legs crossed, chin on fist
a studious frown
told me to strip
but don’t remove your eyeglasses
those ugly black frames so perfect, so typical
stand against the wall
no, sideways, in profile
yes, like that
Your **** is so big
like two pumpkins squashed together
odd on such a skinny guy
Is your **** always crooked
or just when it’s soft
You should paint it red, that would be cool
No, better paint stripes to emphasize the curve
Your little potbelly gives balance to the ***
but you should work out, develop your chest
Okay, put your clothes on
For this evaluation, no charge
but please, more basketball
less poetry and maybe someday
somebody will love you

Used to be half a dozen gray geese
in our town's central pond.
Used to strut out on the road
to attack trucks. Grills, tires. Pecking.
If you honked a car horn at them,
then you were speaking their language.
They'd hiss and cuss you out.
Folks in town got so fed up
with those geese that we did exactly that:
fed up on them.

So, stranger,  
welcome to our local tavern.
Let me buy you a drink.
Just don’t cuss anybody.

Sitting all day with Dakota, my
sick old dog, cancer, comforted
by touch, my toe rubs her flanks
outside on her little rug
under redwoods, on the deck  
her favorite spot.
Fuzzy ears gather sounds,
rhythm, the day goes round.

Dawn is birdsong, dove and thrush
deer tread softly in the underbrush.

Comes the chatter of people
shouts, children at play
whine of machinery
remarkable the variety of motors
on a Saturday.

Light fades,
the return of birdsong
tap-tap, a neighbor’s wood shop
laughter echoes in the forest
scent of barbecue
summer pleasures.

Now midnight
all is hush
endless stars
Dakota remains at my feet, rubbed
by my toes as I chase away flies.

Patience, little fly.
Feel the breath from her nose?
Still alive while it blows.

I am building a brace for the front porch
of my brother who is on the other side
of that door listening with headphones
to a recording of Chinese poetry
(in Mandarin, which he understands)
while he is dying, slowly,
brain cell by brilliant brain cell
in that rocking chair
whose joints are creaking,
coming undone.

He no longer remembers his phone number
or how to count change at the grocery store.
He is in denial of any problem
as he grows younger, ever younger
shedding years like snakeskins
while the crack in the porch grows wider, ever wider
so out here in the rain
I set four-by-fours upright as posts,
then I **** four-by-eights as beams
     lifting on my shoulder
     held by my hands
     pushing with my legs
     transferred through my spine
     anchored by my feet
as the useless joists of the deck
drop termite **** onto my eyebrows
like taunts of children:
nya nya you can’t fix this.
But I can brace it for a while.

Long enough, at least
for my brother to forget ten languages.
I will repair that rocking chair.
I will buy diapers, rubber sheets,
install grab bars in the shower.
I won’t let his porch collapse
out here in the rain.
I will cradle these boards
like a baby in my arms.

toddling, stiff-hipped
thoughtfully sniffs each stalk of ****
as if savoring
dog poetry

In your bleeding cross-section I count
three centuries of wooden wisdom
since that mother cone dropped
on soil no one owned.
Black bears scratched backs
against your young bark. Ohlone
passed peacefully on their path
to the waters of La Honda Creek.

In my lifetime you groaned.
Your bark filled with beetles.
Woodpeckers drilled, feasted.
Needles, whole limbs,
you shed your clothes,
stood naked. I cut your flesh.  

You walloped the earth, creating a trench
two hundred feet long where you lie.
As you fell in your fury
you destroyed my tomatoes,
smashed the daffodils,
snapped a dogwood.

Better you crush my garden than my house
which did not exist nor any of this town
when you first advanced one tender green.
I want to believe the sawtooth less cruel
than another winter of storms.

All good fathers must fall.
Your children surround you,
waving, blocking the light.
My children count rings,
hands sticky with sap.

No moon
trees hush
water lapping
your body floats
on mine
squeezing
stars
bellies throb
breast
to chest
damp hair
steaming
hard breathing
we look up
not wanting
to part
and see
between
silhouettes
of giant
trees
Orion
the club
stalks
Cassiopeia
the chair,
the serpent
rising.

Once a month in the ghost restaurant
        we bring wine,
        we light candles.
Alan (veterinarian) recites a rowdy lyric
        about the cloacae
        of waterfowl.
Dennis (percussionist, oldies band)
        recites from his bar stool about a pretty lass
        courted by men at a dance, it’s his daughter,
        she saves the last dance for him.
Lynette (social worker) tells how her big brother
        tricked her into looking down
        the nozzle of a hose.
Bob (physical therapist) sings about fishing
        in Canada, then selling all the fish
        to Japan.
Joyce (office manager) reads a poem she wrote
        about music,
so I (contractor, retired) tell about singing
        la la la
        to my grandson
        who needs constant holding.
We all agree holding is a good thing
        but hugging among men is an acquired skill
        not taught in Ohio.
Terry (maintenance man) reads a poem
        about the secret meanings
        of words.
Denise (nobody knows what she does) tells a story
        about hitchhiking in France
        where trapped in a truck
        in the remote alps
        with a man’s hand on her thigh
        she thwarts the tough guy
        by singing songs from The Sound of Music.
Bob washes the wine glasses;
        Terry returns the key to its hiding place.
        We hug, some of us anyway.
Our little town, once a month.
        Literature, home-grown.

making love pleasantly when
an explosion in the left armpit
like a Skilsaw ripping from rib to arm
he may be dying in the saddle
but he clutches his chest and leaps yes literally leaps
from bed to kitchen to refrigerator
to drink pickle juice straight from the jar
this is not madness
he’s heard pickle juice cures muscle spasms
now here’s proof
or at least anecdotal

returning to bed
“what was that?” she asks
“just a cramp” he says
“please don’t die” she says frowning
“wasn’t my heart” he says
romantic mood is pretty well shot
but this too is love-making of a high order
she tangles fingers in his gray chest hair
as he drops to sleep
she watches the fingers rise fall rise again
while he breathes he dreams

as I open the window
releasing a fly,
spider dangles
waving legs
scolding

Hello sawdust.
     I’m back.
Scent of sap,
     taste of tannin,
          tickle of fine grit,
after rehab pain,
     through every portal
          you awaken my brain.

Powder of sun ray,
powder of fog’s drip,
powder of soil ******
     through roots to the sky,
hot breath of the forest
     you complete my healing.
Such a feeling!

Sing to me the rhythm of craft.
Guide my fingers, the work will flow.
Sing, sawdust.
Hello!

freckle-faced
     jug-eared
          left-handed
skinny as a fungo bat
loose-jointed
     like a string-puppet
in sports  
     not great but
          scrappy and fun
long distance runner
     played hard
          no grudges
nobody’s idea of handsome
     voice like a scratchy record
married straight out of high school
     drafted
101st Airborne
     everybody had a dumb nickname
          Denny, Little Old Lady
               nobody remembers why
     Thua Thien, South Vietnam
          hit by an RPG
               August 5, 1968
smithereens in a body bag
days later, a letter
     informs
          he’s a daddy
Denny, if you’d lived sixteen more days
     you could’ve legally bought beer
I’m sixty-seven years old
     you’re forever
          almost twenty-one
    
Memorial Day 2015
We've lost them by the thousands.  
We grieve them one by one.

In swimsuits which means
essentially naked
the girls gather at the bridge
gasping giggling
budding bodies bouncing
as they climb over the steel rail
stand at the outside edge
hold hands
scream

and jump
the scary plunge
to cool water, Donner Creek where
toe-touching the sandy bottom
they burst upward through bubbles
to sunlight, to air
whipping hair
with laughter, relief,
stronger now,
sweet courage
with a touch of spice.

Frog-kicking to shore
they smile
at the baggy-legged boys
who dared them
standing hands in pockets
smaller now
feigning indifference
unworthy of their loveliness.

From my window I see
branches dripping
gray fog.
I face a long day
heaving heavy boards,
testing
my brittle back,
glasses wet
with sweat,
porcupine fingers
bristling splinters,
shaping lumber
with a clear heart.

Carpenter, carpenter, what do you say?
Cut wood all day,
bring home the pay:
a pocketful of sawdust.

With strange joy
I can't wait
to begin.

there is magic in concrete
        if you believe

when you work the surface
        flat, in circles,
the float tool buoyant
        on a gray puddle
here’s the enchantment:
with fingertips on the handle you can
        sense the wet concrete, the mojo
        like a sleeping wet bear
solid in mass yet grudgingly liquid
        sort of bouncy
        as you stroke

pebbles disappear, embedded
the tool is ******* cement
        a final thin film, a pretty coat
        over guts of gravel and sand

now hose the mixer, shovels, tools,
        hose your hands and boots
as the water disappears, so shall you
        unless you scratch a name

honor the skilled arms,
        the corded legs and vertebral backs
        the labor that shaped
this odd stone
        sculpted, engineered
        implanted with bolts
forgotten
half-buried in dirt
bearing our lives

Noon, I’m next in line behind an old man.
“I want to withdraw fourteen dollars,” he says.
The teller, a young woman with a soft sweater, says
“There’s only—let me check—yes—fifty-two cents.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She tilts her head. “Sorry.”
The sorrow is genuine.
He wears a pinstripe suit, frayed,
wafting an odor of smoke and earth.
A smartly folded handkerchief, breast pocket,
has a dark stain. His silver beard
is neatly trimmed.

On one wall above the safe is a giant
mural of teamsters driving a stagecoach.
The man says, “There might be—”
“No. It’s always the same.”
For a moment he closes his eyes,
a slow blink while indignities of a lifetime pass.
Without a word, the young woman slides a sandwich
over the countertop through the teller window.
“Blessings on you,” the man says with a nod,  
and he walks away with a limp.

I cash my check, a big one
from three days of messy labor
for a matron of the horsey set.
“He lives by the creek,” the teller says
without my asking. “Under a bridge.”
Outside the bank, in the parking lot of glistening cars,
I look around for the pinstripe suit, the silver beard.
I might offer the man something.
He might refuse to take it.
Anyway, no matter:
he has disappeared like the last stagecoach.
Only the blessing remains.

In my little town
dogs sleep on the street
and act affronted
when you drive on the bed.

My little town allocates resources
in proportion to priorities.
We have one school
two churches
and three bars.

The teenage boys in my little town
gather by the pond after dark
with big engines and little cans of beer.
They steal the Stop sign, stone the streetlight,
moon a passing car.
But at least
we know where they are.

In my little town some girls keep horses
in their back yards. Above the dogs and surly boys,
they cruise on saddles astride a big beast,
dropping opinions as they meet.

On the Fourth of July
the whole little town
has a big picnic.

The ducks on the pond in my little town
waddle across the road each afternoon
a milling, quackling crowd
round the door of the yellow house
where the lady gives them grain.
When it rains,
they swim on the road
or sleep there, like dogs.

On a cold morning
the woodsmoke of stoves
lingers like fog
in my little town.

We hold village meetings
where a hundred-odd cranks and dreamers
***** for a grudging consensus.

We cling to the side of our mountain
building homes, making babies
beneath trees of awesome height.
We work too hard, play too rough,
and sense daily something sweet about living
in our little town.

flapping on a line
                faded like a hazy sky
        once bright as bluebirds
How I miss your threads
        pale pink
                once scarlet as a rose

Belly to belly
        sheets are packaged
                in pairs
We could frolic
        in puffs
                of air

My clothespin
        to your rope
Come clean
        sweet cotton
                for romance
Laundry
        let’s dance

In the swash zone
a desperate crab somehow overturned,
belly-up. Dome-backed, helpless,
she twitches feet and claws
grasping only air
as seagulls gather, smacking lips.

Shall I intervene?
Who do I favor, crab or gull?
Frankly I have problems with both personalities.

Can’t ignore a creature in distress.
(Who programmed that?)
Wiggle my toes into damp sand beneath the beast.
Flip.
With nary an acknowledgement, crab scuttles
sideways to a spot in the wave wash
where in a flutter of little legs she half-buries herself,
eyeballs above.
Seagulls scream curses.

What did I expect, a thank you?

she is waiting outside baggage claim
in blue jeans and a sweatshirt that says **** YALE
she is texting, frowning without wrinkles
her hair a thick braid to the small of her back
even among the smell of jet fuel and diesel fumes
her hair the scent of cedar smoke, campfires
picture it as a long furry tail
a meerkat, they’re cute, they’re carnivores
she stares at oncoming cars
she hops on one foot
I bet she’s really smart, really nice
she has an LL Bean backpack on rollers and a floral garment bag
she turns to me and asks
“Will you watch my bags? I need to ***.”
before I can answer she dashes in short steps
now I notice tall heels below frayed cuffs
the heels lift her ***, nice ***
but she’s younger than my daughter
she trusts me, I feel elevated
she’s gone so long
the pack on wheels, could it be a bomb?
and me standing, guarding
leering old creep nominated to be smithereens of pink spray
but she looked sweet in an intellectual touchy-feely way
no lipstick, no eyeliner
I appreciate girls with no makeup
and nobody puts bombs in a garment bag,
totally against the bombing code
look there sticking out of a pocket of the backpack
a copy of a book, *******
my novel that went out of print thirty-seven years ago
which is twice her age
there was soft down above her lip, meerkat fuzz
my portrait on the back cover, a younger hairy me
did she see?
when she returns I will speak kindly
a bevy of bluebirds will fly from my lips to her ears
an SUV stops, a burly man in coat and sloppy tie steps out
opens the tailgate, throws the portmanteau inside
then the backpack with the book
should I stop him?
“Are you sure you have the right bags?”
I ask somewhat unassertively
the man looks at me like he’s bitten lime
and says, “**** Yale?”
and I nod okay
and just then she bursts out the door breathless
hugs the burly man
not a glance to me, not a thank you for guarding the bags
she hops into the shotgun seat
the words I hear her say:
“Finally, at last!”

Q. Is all lumber female?
A. No, only the pretty boards.
Q. Is that why those nasty two-by-fours are called studs?
A. In darkness within walls
they support our lives.

Hey, wolf spider
on the bathtub bottom
scaling porcelain, slipping —
uncatchable. I want to shower.
You dodge my washcloth, you dart away.
You idiot. I’m trying to help.
Must I spray you to the drain?

Bare-***, crouching I pause,
resting my fingers on the tub bottom
when suddenly you are tickling the hairs
on the back of my hand: a greeting, an asking.
So I lift.
Rapidly I escort you to the kitchen door,
set my palm on the porch floor
where after rain there is the scent of fungus
but you remain,
you stand on my knuckles with sensitive feet
straddling two prominent veins.
You take my pulse.

I lean close,
eyeball to eyeballs unblinking.
We, both, are hairy.
We frighten women.
We mean no harm.

Suddenly shifting your perch
you read my palm:
heart line, life line, fate.
Almost a handshake.
My future, would you tell?
Then jump, Brother.
Farewell!

El Niño scooped the sand 
clearing every scrap of driftwood, 
every construction playful of a summer’s dayful 
the slapped-together forts, dinosaurs, castles
now launched to Mexico, to Tahiti, who knows?
replaced by fresh fragments of forest 
twisted logs, battered beams
shed by Oregon, by Vancouver Island and Alaska
bobbed by current
to this windswept cove.

Beneath swirls of sunset
as Van Gogh might render
among scattered scallops, kelp, 
sandpipers by the hundred, 
one joyful dog
dances the landscape
expressing with his grin
this vast chaos
of delight.

Sun rises in a dry sky,
we walk a dirt road,
the dog and I.
Rounding a bend
little Mickey halts,
one paw lifted.

Three deer—a buck, a doe, a fawn—
senses ablaze with the twitch of ear,
quiver of nose, blink of eye
take our measure.

The buck has a handsome rack
but I can see ribs, count the bones.
I once saw a doe maul an Aussie shepherd, cracking
the skull with her forelegs to protect a fawn.
Mickey with uncommon good judgment
stays frozen by my ankle.

A moment, mild,
of silent negotiation,
the domestic and the wild.
With such hunger the fawn, at least,
might eat from my hand
before the buck spears me.

The doe breaks first, up a hillside so vertical
her hooves can’t hold. She slides back,
then on a switchback leaps again
followed quickly by the fawn
as the buck remains, impassive and supreme,
gentleman and protector,
what you wish in your own father, frankly,
and then he follows with that head-bobbing walk
balancing antlers into the parched brush
holding our gaze until vanished.

My neighbor, a beauty, runs naked
into the woods singing
"Help me help me help me help me."
I find her rolling in thorns,
stuffing her mouth with leaves.
     I say, "Please come with me."
     She says, "Blackberry tea."
She bleeds from her back and buttocks.
I reach out my hand.
She flees: barefoot, through brambles.
Somebody has called the volunteer fire brigade.
We come upon her in the hollow of a redwood.
Again I offer my hand.
She clutches and suddenly
pulls fist
to belly.
In an instant the fingers know it all:
     heat, grit, sweat,
     firmness of flesh.
I am paralyzed.
     Dimpled thighs,
     dark electric hair,
     dazed eyes.
A fireman takes her arm,
wraps body in blanket,
stuffs her into the cab of
a fire truck the color of blood.
Men remove helmets and yellow slicker raincoats.
Flashing lights go suddenly dark.
The radio sputters farewell;
neighbors disperse.
Soon street and forest are silent.
My hand
still burns.

“If you grow old, it is your own fault,”
I say to Terry as we climb
the mountain behind his cabin.
Terry is wearing a device that transmits his heartbeat
by cell phone to doctors at Stanford.
Terry has a flutter, nothing serious, probably.
Terry has a great heart, actually,
something serious, warm and wise.

We ascend this hill on Tuesdays every week
discussing poetry and plumbing, our twin passions:
the gathering of mountain water funneled into pipes,
delivered to homes,
the ordering of words funneled into pages
delivered nowhere, sadly.

We discuss friends fallen or falling,
the arc of marriages, parenthood, oddball relationships,
each a story and a puzzlement,
webs woven of love and rage.
That, and motorcycles, we talk,
pacifist veterans who walk still seeking sense
of an incomprehensible war that shaped our lives.
Objectors, conscientious, we realized too late,
not an easy path but better than following orders.
We walked away from war.
He, the Air Force; I, the draft.
Branded dishonorable.
So we hike, hearts pounding,
the simple friendship of two old men
seeking the hilltop
again and again.

The earth wakes us
shaking the bed.
It’s 3:21a.m.

I sit bolt upright,
the dogs growl,
you clutch my arm.
We, naked
in the dark.

To the ears of this old carpenter
the home we built is
sort of moaning
but not in a painful way
more like the way my body feels
when I stretch after
sitting too long.

After a few seconds: silence.
The planet rests.
“Want to check anything?” you ask.
“No,” I say.
So we curl together and go back to sleep:
you, me, dogs, our little house,
forest, mountain, tectonic plates.

No damage
but a reminder of
who owns this place,
payment due some day
and when it comes
I want to be with you.

What was the point saying hi in the hallways
to all those girls (and it was only the girls)
You passed those same kids six times a day
Think of the energy wasted with Hi Mary! Hi Cindi!
when you could be thinking baseball or astronomy
the stuff of seventh grade.

Eighth grade brought the mystery
of introductory geometry
the jostling double parabolas of Julie’s body
shaped like an S, she was outgoing in so many ways
I just had to say Hi Julie!
whereas Kathleen one could discern was similarly shaped
but tightly encased, a quiet one, shyly a hello.

My curiosity was for Hi Julie!
my dreams for hello Kathleen
though that was the limit: hello, Hi!
and then after graduation, not even that.
Not even goodbye.

You are heathen. Naked. Wild.
You astound me with your clumsy grace.
Your every move is dance.
You are liquid.
Cry, and your arms mourn.
Smile, and your legs laugh.
Take delight in your body.
Your body. Yours.
Watch out for the monster in men.
One day, a clumsy boy
will admire your grace.
He will love you, I hope,
as I love you now.
He will give you, I hope,
as much joy
as he takes.

I am in bed, midnight, when the doctor calls.
She says my brother is in the emergency room
with high blood sugar, dehydration, another stroke.
        She wants guidelines.

Dementia.
He cannot feed himself or even smile.
Yet he lights up whenever I arrive —
        you can sense it in his eyes.

As a child I chased after him on a tricycle.
He taught me baseball, rebellion, girls.
Taught me to drive our old Studebaker.
Sent me letters from California until at last
I followed, too. Now he leads
        on this new path.

"No heroic measures,” I say. “Do not resuscitate."
“Okay,” the doctor says, "what about a feeding tube?"

When the heart stops, it is as if the body
has decided to die. But if the body cannot swallow?
Or think? He slowly starves. Who decided that?

To the black bedroom a soft light comes,
headlights passing. Rain is dripping.
Dogs are sleeping on the floor,
one with a gentle snore.
My wife, head propped on hand,
lies on her side, watching.
In this quiet night
with the doctor’s breath in my ear
I am an incompetent god,
        but the only one on call.

Grandson unlike most of humanity
enjoys the sound of my singing
so together we make up songs.
He at ten weeks with green eyes,
jug ears and the occasional goofy smile
is an honest audience though a toothless critic
who frowns upon hard consonants
but relishes lengthy vowels:

        la la-la la la-la la, la la-la la
        la! la! la la-la
        ooo ooobie  
        ooo!
        be doobie doo
        green eyes, green eyes, green eyes, green,
        green eyes, green eyes, green eyes, green…

Who needs radio? I compose, he edits,
new melodies fill the room,
perhaps only we two can understand.
Don’t listen.