Many shadows of leaves
fall on the goldfish
in our weird pond
On their flightier school
fall shadows of yellow
leaves flighty in wind
Neurotic school of leaves
shaped like the fish
These fish are spooked
by the sense of shadows
on their orange backs
On their sides, a weird
dappling of themselves
They can never know
but seem to sense
how nature ghosts to selves
I wake and want to be different
from my self. I split the word
in two to show the goshdarn seriousness
of my intent. I do this for a someone
watching me (inside) who probably isn’t me,
but who ‘s always there anyway.
I mean the one who walks the other one
like a pet on a retractable leash.
These walks with our little wild friend
can be stressful. They can walk us,
and it’s embarrassing when others see.
Other times? I’m not so sure.
We might enjoy the fun of having
a wolf take us for a ride.
Could it be that life and death
are just resemblances of the real?
Often, I do not feel myself
but a sketch of something happening elsewhere.
You have devoured the pheasant
and now you sweep your desk
with its blue tail feather.
So you didn’t write back
to your friend in dark need.
Of his own intricate making.
You get tired of talking to it.
The browner fields that lay wet all winter,
When you can’t not think of their bones,
There is really nothing in there,
Chunks, pried ice more than anything,
Maybe a few Gordian knots of roots,
The leftovers of the salad days,
They’re only here to be looked on.
It is and isn’t like a body laid open
By surgeons on a metal table.
The love knots and their strangulations
Of the anticipative past
You could display
As natural forms, as art.
Some of those look Gaelic.
They make for sexy tattoos of constancy,
The only real human threat.
The passivity of that earth,
strange as if it were a ring of Saturn,
why does it soothe you driving past?
Your soul is a photosynthesis of darkness.
The largeness of small chemicals
Should not be underestimated.
The smell of language’s chemicals,
How you use them to char the images
That float in the dark bath.
The swipe of your hand
Using the blue feather
In a lightless room,
Jabbing at furious dark and future dust,
Maybe this is really you.
It darkens the dust almost like an apology.
The world is in two pieces: you and it.
This wound into two is done.
The mouth suddenly closes.
The heart skips a beat of iron.
The blue feather commands your attention.
Your friend is gone into.
It does its little blue sutra.
This pebble does not even wake at morning
There is no need for it to even know
When the arc of the heavens comes up over it
When dawn rides up with her rosy hood
There is a sweeping sense of existence
For those who rise and look out windows
The pebble that rests on the street
It is as real as you or I or any president
But it cannot care that it is real
Is it more or less true than us?
Granted, it always was exactly what it was
It didn’t vacillate the way we do
Oh, there were tiny erosions
But we wouldn’t know
So we mock it and say “unreal”
Because it never changes so much
Nobody could ever even know to endear
The way we fall in love with the inconstancies
The word is spoken as an accusation
Spoken as a term of endearment
It may be bafflement or certainty
There is suddenly the feeling of direction
We know which way to look now
It’s a feeling of symmetry or asymmetry
It can be very exciting
In fact it is galvanizing
To suddenly know which is the one
By which we know we are and are not
My feelings copied a poem about me,
a page from my brain.
They said they wrote it.