I go to visit the forest to see if it is lonely.
I have visited it thousands of times.
The trees tower above me. I am swallowed up
as soon as I enter.
I ask the forest if it is lonely.
The mists swirl around me, old breath,
the boggy parts of ponds,
even the crickets, go dead silent,
the leaves stop their frottage orgy.
It’s never answered me once, in thousands of times.
It is a proud forest, busy hoarding death.
Here, wash this simple board.
Though your hands will be freezing.
Because the landscape is freezing.
The water turns to ice on bones of your hand.
This is good.
For the ice. For the landscape.
For the process that wants to happen.
Scrub the board.
See how it shines with the wet?
See how the ice shines?
Soon it will look like a fresh bride.
You will be crazy cold.
Soon you will feel delight.
the trees cast a net
who am I to say
if you fall
one of your hairs
in a book
we stand on a promontory
and cast nets
into a photograph
where I’m going
Be Right Back
There is the power of prayer.
The power of silence.
The power of beavers.
Large, menacing beavers.
You forgot that one.
I like religion. Sometimes. If it gives people
distance from the process, which is everything.
Transcendence. Some it turns to rabid dogs.
That’s a different process than the one I’m talking about.
The one which is all.