spying an empty shell
moving up in the world
more thoughts on a hermit crab
never quite at home
not quite a crab
are you really a hermit?
developing Herman the Hermit Crab
never at home
Isssa- Snail, always at home
If you are reading this, come say hello.
ask about the weather, ask about the day.
A smile, a wave, static-filled ramblings.
A chat over coffee, a smoke for the road.
Just tip your hat, shake my hand, have a seat.
Or don't, and I'll write this, bitter and alone.
O' which seals from me
The torment of thy thoughts –
Thoughts not meant to enter me
But sensed in mists of spheres.
I'm dwelling hence
For'a hermit doth not lure the cold –
The thrusting cold o'that which
Is plaguing the foresaken.
Solitude, then to me
Is to radiate that ease –
That ease swaning circular and gracefully
on the calms of the Hydriads' waters.
if you got the mask on
even hermits could see
your true intentions through these
"Peek and retreat
is the term for it.
Is the term for what I do."
"Treating the world to a prime game,
a fine game of relentless peek-a-boo."
That summer in West Virginia:
washing myself clean
with brown water
from the Ohio river.
I saw gar sunning themselves
near the surface: fish with a thousand teeth,
fisherman’s nuisance. Like me:
take the bait and sink.
Matt takes us to the woods
and promises a surprise.
We slash brush for miles,
and I bleed. Thorns cut up and down
my skin. So easy to get lost out here –
multiflora rose so thick you can’t see
the sky. Crawl back to where you came from.
Plants move so slow, but I have patience.
Back when I could tell the birds apart
I held a dead wood thrush
in my hand
and it felt like air.
Eyes closed and tilted to the side –
because of the window, because a bird’s eyes
are not adapted to see glass. I wanted to bury it,
but instead I laid it in the grass.
For the worms: because we are all going.
We find the magnolias. No one is quite sure
how they ended up here, but they look exotic,
different from the pawpaws and oaks
with their shiny leaves and white flowers.
To be a bird in the magnolias – hermit thrush,
singing in a language too old to understand.
Voice of god calling out to say: come home.
If only I knew how to listen.