No Direction Home

 

I used to believe in the sky, then it bled steel

over green mountains and burned all rivers to dust.

I used to believe in the mouths of children until
I grew sick of my name on their tongues, so I took pliers

to the one voice, plastered their faces on milk cartons

& websites, buses & billboards so I could sleep.

And I slept.

 

I trusted oceans, moon in the water,

and praises lost in the wind's throat, before the world
made good its promise, before the desert coughed up
any might have, should have, wish I had.

 

Once,

I believed in silence, but I don't believe
that any more. The fire's too strong, the tundra
too deep, the masters of war too busy.  Your eyes follow
these words, so you think you know what I'm saying.
I once hoped the salt of night would give me direction
but I've learned to stay put, and I do it well.

 

 
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Politics of Desperation

 

What we cannot do now is imagine

any other way.

 

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Soft gurgles of three cowbirds

over the fence line.

Shadows in elm & spruce & oak.

Mist along the river stones.

Salt-spill on the table

and windows mapped with prints.

The tiniest thread of winter,

a gift, in mid-summer sky.
 

 

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