They say in the old country
that lighthouses are for keepers;
better make your own way.
They say eyes are like knives piercing your heart;
better stay low and move fast.
They say in the old country
that hopes are like lovers;
better check your promises.
They say dreams are fragile
and fall from heads like autumn leaves;
better watch your step.
They say shelter is for beggars;
better nail your secrets to the wall.
Occasionally, in winter
I take a turn into some vast space
–an empty parking lot, a parade field–
shorn of summer frippery
and I’m there again, there
where each single blade of grass vibrates,
where every grain of sand trembles
and the sun,
terrible in its wintry beauty,
fights back the clouds,
never mind their insistence
on seasonal priority.
Hard to stay home on such days,
all the triviality of existence
concentrated in a mote of dust
poised by the window,
ready to make a run for it,
unaware of the relentless
inescapability of it.
Heaven and Hell
are but regions of the heart
with disputed borders
I’m oil, life is water.
I’m a stain on the tarmac,
a slick spot to catch fate unawares.
I’m not the doer, but the done;
not the message, but the voice,
modulated by frequency or amplitude,
not so much indifferent
as bemused, not unaware
but naked in a world of secrets.
Sparrows bicker
while the sky
contemplates rain
exiles child 