The curl of cat in my lap
the coffee steaming in my cup
the hush of morning, save
the tap, tap, tapping 
of my fingers on the keyboard,
sunshine streaming 
through the window 
channeling a current
of words.

The sea and I
are different people
setting grief
in similar type.

I imagined a movie camera 
following me in my youth: 
always when I looked my best,
mostly when I was walking away from home,
alone, searching for something
though I did not know what--
the narrator of the film
affirming to the various viewers
(all the people I admired)
what a good person I was,
only occasionally did I look
directly into the camera:
it is startling what we will do
to feel like someone 
is paying attention
to what we are doing.

This sliver of sunlight will last
another minute, maybe two,
leaving the faces in the pines
plenty of time to establish order
before darkness determines
who must stay awake
to work the graveyard shift.

At the edge of life,
when you have learned your lessons
and are willing to share them
with those who will listen
and with, well, some who do not,
sometimes, just to hear your own story again
you speak, a hint of smirk on your face,
cause you know what they are in for
and though it's not the strangest,
most wonderful thing ever,
it's pretty close.

The shovels leaning against the shed
hint at many stories, but tell
just the one of losing
their delicate balance
while trying to work the beds
too long after dark.

Is the poem really about a man
with no ears, Steve--
or is it about the bus he drove--
the bus to Pomasqui--
perhaps it is the destination,
maybe it is simply about places 
that are just beyond your grasp, 
the frustration, towns and cities
passing by the open window,
and you followed the directions, 
yet you can't even stop for a visit 
so you begin yelling at the driver--
he can't hear you--and he drives
faster and faster--doesn't he realize
you are on the bus ride of your life?

The doe appears
without her twins
most mornings,
scouring the ground
under the apple tree,
not willing to share
her knowledge yet,
all these fruits
that fall freely
during the night.

Sometimes it was so quiet
she could barely breathe.

Two woodpeckers drum the gutter
outside the bedroom window,
confused by our light, perhaps,
or wanting a bedtime story.

I have not jumped ship 
my friend,
it is after midnight
and once again I am in the cabin
on my hands and knees
searching for what is lost,
the blood moon above
the wind in the waves
and I know, without doubt,
I will find one sparkling moment,
and one will help me find the rest
and all will be well,
earth rotating on its axis 
earth, rotating on its axis.

While the old man tries to solve
the puzzle of what's gone
missing in his life,
the mail appears
with offers and contracts
that fill in all the blanks for him
and guarantee that money
will no longer be a burden.

I remember the orange tree
you planted in the backyard
I remember the dog you kept
on a chain beside it--
life: its pleasures
tangled in the leash
of the dog who had committed
no offense.

We mastered the yo-yo
when we were very young,
hurling headlong
into a dazzling world,
then snapping back
in an instant
to the safety
of own damp palms.

She arose 
and dressed 
as she did 
most days,
readied herself--
she was the space 
in the mirror--
the girl
whose name
you can't remember--
she was proof
of someone
else's life.

To say that the white ducks
look just like angels
stretching their wings
in the new, dawn light
might be a romantic notion,
but it's true, they do,
and the smell of shit
in the yard confirms
that this is heaven.

And the story ends
as such stories do
with the blindfolds removed
a puff of suffering
a smattering of discontent--
the last song is sung
as the curtain falls
the people rise
and leave.

One duck murmurs in the dark--
she's awake now, so am I--
then three, then five, then nine,
then all the others join us,
reassuring one another
that the howling in the ravine
is just wind,
that the night
isn't hungry,
that even though we've seen them,
coyotes can't be real.

He built a house of platitudes
in the middle of the plains
she said, "but, a strong wind . . . "
he said,
"I can always build another . . ."

Every morning
we look
for something new
to rescue.

When the end of the road
met the lap of the river--
you had no choice 
but to learn to swim,
now your legs are heavy
and your arms are tired--
how to begin again
on this land so dry
and wide?

Breakfast crumbs
on the table,
a brown mouse
waiting--no one
wants to eat alone.

Like a cat circles and settles upon your lap
darkness settles upon your days,
you wake
to find it heavy on your chest.

The chilled room
you have entered
has thirty one
open windows
no one ever
thinks of closing.

Down a darkened street
she walked
beneath a blue-black cloud-streaked sky
toward a smoky moon
on a musky October night,
trees and shadows waltzed--
she walked--
beneath a blue-black cloud-streaked sky
toward a smoky moon.

A woman on a bicycle
pedals to the end of the dock
and straight into the sea
while throngs of sightseers
scan the water
for breaching whales.

The steadfast heart is thinking about you,
cloaked in a jacket bought at the five-and-dime
smoking a cigar and wondering 
when you will come to your senses.

Can you feel it--
the small fragment
of yesterday's sun,
this egg, still warm
when I press it
against your cheek?