What we notice. What we look past. The quiet politics of where we put our eyes.

Attention

Attention is where love actually lives. This week we practice looking longer — at the room, the stranger, the thing we keep walking past.

All summer I made friends 
with the creatures nearby ---
they flowed through the fields
and under the tent walls,
or padded through the door, 
grinning through their many teeth,&nbsp;&nbsp;
looking for seeds,
suet, sugar; muttering and humming, 
opening the breadbox, happiest when
there was milk and music. But once
in the night I heard a sound 
outside the door, the canvas 
bulged slightly ---something
was pressing inward at eye level.
I watched, trembling, sure I had heard
the click of claws, the smack of lips
outside my gauzy house ---
I imagined the red eyes, 
the broad tongue, the enormous lap. 
Would it be friendly too?
Fear defeated me. And yet,
not in faith and not in madness 
but with the courage I thought
my dream deserved,
I stepped outside. It was gone.
Then I whirled at the sound of some
shambling tonnage.
Did I see a black haunch slipping
back through the trees? Did I see
the moonlight shining on it?
Did I actually reach out my arms
toward it, toward paradise falling, like
the fading of the dearest, wildest hope ---
the dark heart of the story that is all
the reason for its telling?

The Chance To Love Everything

not in faith and not in madness
but with the courage I thought
my dream deserved,
I stepped outside.

Ordinary Gods

they say, stare directly at the sun 
and you'd be blinded 
yet i turn to look
deliberate, almost desperate 
everytime i see a face
someone i shouldn't know 
someone i might have seen before 

only one thing repeats itself 
barren, nostalgic, and still blistering, 
it feels raw at the core

i miss the times when i didn't know 
when we were still strangers 
the times apart from now,
the quiet before.