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the thousand gray statues
when workers leave for the night, shift done
the last task is to
turn off the fluorescent factory lights
Row upon row of Buddhas
sit all night in
soft dark silence
gray stone eyes closed
all this is happening in a time zone
on another continent far from here
Picture their stillness,
All those Buddhas
even now as I write
even now as you read
the thousand gray statues

Poetry calls
breathes on the crackly line
through the heavy black hand piece
of this old rotary telephone

As ever, heedless of logistics, timing, money
poetry has no change and
is calling collect, reversing the charges

The charge, always the same, is to
notice
to notice and not know why.
Why this particular tangle
of blue thread, memory, and world?

This ordinary therapy.
The Word Cure prescribes
writing all worries onto paper
long strings of linked letters
loosen the grip of some thing
releases me from the clasp
of cold mechanical dread
that dread, wild and robot-shaped
like a thoughtless metal bear —
bigger, though.
Released, I breathe
Breathe again
Begin again and now and then
even admire
what my hands and words and worries made
of all that pent up brass and fur and fear

before dawn
a string of coral-colored lights
laced high across the neighbor’s yard
turns itself
into sunrise through the trees

when the other shoe drops
the universe continues
light in the darkest

when the other shoe drops
take the next trembling breath in
and brew revival

when the other shoe drops
we are presented with options:
choose to continue
looking up for the next shoe
and the shoe after that
or
Stop
Counting
syllables and shoes.
Consider instead
the possibility
that whoever dropped all that footwear
is barefoot now, too.
Done with shoes,
let us wriggle our many eager toes
in delicious anticipation
of walking together
through soft grass
and warm sand
towards the infinite ocean

this pace I live at
is not a comfortable gait
I desire a slower stroll
a more ample ambling
amid and among
these wild outcroppings
of stony events and wanderers encountered
on the green verge and snowy sections
muddy stone strewn places where the path
proceeds through No Tree Land before
the next curve back into beckoning forest
and oh, then how I want
how I want to slow
and linger long on the delicious
portions of path, in forest or by the sea
or near a good cafe instead of this
this rushing forward
to the next
rocky bit

Some mornings require
a joy filled, ecstatic poem
Subject: Cold is grand
Winter, majestic—
toss in some darkness
even though it’s morning
and add a concrete, telling detail:
an engine that won’t start
a sidewalk turned ice rink
Oh, by now I love this kind
of poem so much that
I’ll take two, at any price
if one will rev the engine
of my body, two will fuel
me through this frozen day

ghost moon, morning sky
low glow behind walls of mist
days lived long distance
drifting, behind these worries
in this world slowed by winter

upstairs, my toes and mind
warm enough for rhyme
tumble sounds around
build some small poems
while one leftover word
sharp-edged Juxtaposition
carries astonishing cold
tucks the wind to bed
so cold can build something too
which creation is best
some warm words above
or the frozen foundation
that iced my kitchen pipes?

the next blizzard or
the one after that could be
your last blizzard so
listen to the storm’s voices
revel in snow and cocoa