The spring’s efflorescence,
the sunshine halcyon,
the withering rose fetching,
the ripple in the lake a talisman,
and the birdsong mellifluous,
is ephemeral,
yet quintessential.

Through wherewithal of it all,
we find ourselves pyrrhic,
because it passes like a scintilla,
but in our hearts, it’s eternal.

i have found what you are like
the rain,

            (Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
                                  with thinned

newfragile yellows

                      lurch and.press

—in the woods
                      which
                              stutter
                                        and

                                              sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
                  your kiss

Say you want a cat. A dog's too easy,
would wag when wag is inappropriate,
and slobber on the guests. You'll take the cat,
so different and strange, it drives you crazy,

its shiftlessness, its ins-and-outs, its chi.
You call. It does not come. Is this a pet,
this Dharma ***? You say you can't accept
its vacant gaze, its scorn, who yearned to be

at home with feral grace, with all you're not.
But you're a Body safely locked from Mind,
that Problem no Mind solves. This point's defined
for you by ****, who's not the pet you thought

but Otherness, one owned by God, or none.
Cat sleeps for hours, wants out. A job well done.

(Inspired by Joe O’C – for whom I’m sure it’s not like this!)


The great Artist is at work.
Around his house, his children move
in whispers, while
his wife lays down a dinner tray,
tells that it’s there
with two soft taps – no more – upon the study door.

The great Artist begs his work
to yield to him, to offer up
its answers, while
outside, his children move away
(as children always will, towards play)
and food that took
an hour to cook – or more – turns cold there on the floor.

If an easy rain
would make the rocks slippery,
he would hold my hand.