I hold in my hand a paper
It is blank, and dark
And shaped like a Sony voice recorder.
I tell it “I always wondered
when entering leaves
and leaving comes in—
where we go when we
begin,
and who says it’s over”
The little black box catches all of my thoughts
and stares blankly ahead
waiting for more.
“Why do we think it matters
that we suffer alone?
Beaches
cliffs
and valleys,
erode time and Other
forces.
Unread letters
dissent
to their homology
of patted matter
and solitary discomfort under
gravity.
Solace in solitude is wonderful.
Only I feel the weight of Earth’s atmosphere
in the sound of a dialtone—remember that?
Yes, the other side of the conversation
waits for connection—but you must choose
the coordinates.”
Hawaii is volcano islands,
but
Rock and sand
Air and breeze
Prairie and trees—
this is the Midwest.
I’m going to sit down
and envelop myself.
When I am done
The poem will have delivered me
to a place in the grass of a prairie
a cave on the side of a cliff
a beach it pebbles for sand
and a steep descent from the
volcano.
When this poem
is read with gathering perspiration
it will cool the still-flowing
lava of Hawaiian islands,
soften the edge
of each pebble;
this poem will hang a cloth in the opening
of mouths
caving in
to protect the traveler
from his shadow.
If you do not hear this poem
of the Earth escaping itself,
trees fighting their way into
its soil,
rocks being worn away to grains
of sand sifting through our fingers
and clouds taking moisture
to a more deserving place,
let the consolation be
a life
full of prosperity
and feigned kindness--
ready-mades,
hollow handshakes,
doors beaten
by little hands
asking about breakfast
on a Saturday
and
selling thin mints
to your neighbors.
I love you, sisters and brothers,
just weather our sod
and air
and water
and fire
--it will find you
when it is ready.
MMXII
