What’s barbershop banter without some politics
But the old customer with early onset dementia
Kept changing the subject and we played along
Swept up in the confusion of his memory
And for a short time gas prices were way down
Building was booming
Children played in the streets without fear
People respected one another
And humankind had just landed on the moon

It’s in those yellows and blues,
in the precision and balance
and the ether of the composition.

In the foot warmer on the floor
and the brass container on the wall.

The darkness of the jug
from which the milkmaid pours the milk
in a silvered thread
emerging from shadow,

that imperfect zero,
a void folding into itself.

A small act mirroring the cosmos,
like something refusing to vanish.

I love how, at summer’s end,
treetops drift away,
the sun wears a broader crown,
light is softer on your eyes,
you see an eagle
in the vastness of the sky.

Your skin also changes clothes,
adjusting to cooler nights,
in which you dream in solstice hours
and sleep a longer dream.

Gold and purple frame the end of summer,
like goldenrod and chicory
growing together,

swallowtails drifting over thistles.

The end of summer
is as big as the moon
over a harvested field.

It’s as small as the old couple,
walking in the distance,
ever more insubstantial.

The blue beaker of sky in your hand,
drink it down, savour it,
swish it around until you can sing arias,
swim in the spaces of song,
open the spigot and pour another,
share it with your friends,
wash your face with it,
bathe in a bath of blue,
rinse all the meanness from your hair
until it shines with morning light,
soak your feet and fly,
play in the sprinkler,
immerse yourself everywhere,
laugh in a blue rain,
dive into everyone’s pool.

Inside, arrows to psychiatric care
led me down three corridors
only to end at the amputee desk.
I turned back and headed for reception.
“Oh no,” the person said, “second floor.”

I took the elevator to the second floor
and walked around it twice, seeing no one,
as if I were on a floor that didn’t exist.
Finally, I saw another person.
“I’m looking for psychiatry,” I asked.
“Oh no,” the person said, “third floor.”

I went back to the elevator
and pressed the button for the third floor.
When the doors opened,
I was upside down in the elevator.

I understand my obsession
my senses are worn
my heart and mind
thinned by feeling and knowing
even with such exhaustion

to the core of me
I try to make words appear

that can somehow be a solace
for those who suffer

as flowers blossom in children’s eyes
lavishly as from soil

their spirits play in empty parks
the God of light delights in their joy

I suppose
a few kindnesses
is the least I can do

for Juliana Marins (June 21–24, 2025)

A nun levitated above her bed
Her face in rapture
While outside the window
An old man with walker
Fell face first into sidewalk
And was devoured by ants
And across the world
A young woman slipped into a volcano
And went to sleep
Remaining beautiful
In the fires of the earth
Above or below
The mystery remains
It is levitating even now