Quanta

I try to find myself
Amidst the debris of living
The present is not now
The past is open to conjecture
The future a mere whimsy
A thin cloud composed of remembrance and hope

I know faith and philosophy
That’s not my point

Amidst the clatter of thinking
Emerging notions like stray photons
Almost grasped, almost seen
Only to wink away
Just at the moment of recognition
There still comes something familiar
Some pattern
Some wrinkle of repetition
Just enough to grab a flimsy hold —
As if on reality

Shall I say a thing
Hoping for some connection
Some proof of contingency?

All there is is is

Diptych for Autumn

                I

They say time is a river
You can never step in twice
In the same place
But I know you can
If you wait long enough
Between steps

If you wait until it’s unrecognizable
Until you step on a dry patch of grass
Crunching underfoot just so
Until you taste the clay the color of dreams
Until you feel the sweat making canyons
In the soil on your forearm
Under the seeping sun
Unfiltered by knowing

I say you can, by being still and listening
To the strangely placid screaming
Of cicadas
Dying away into the night

                II

Among the ghosts I saw
In a strange and fitful mirror

A young man, lean and early,
Sunlight stranded in his hair
Skin the color of baked earth
Heart like pierced leather
Eyes berserk with possibility

I saw myself, long ago

Cicada rhapsody

Summer dies reluctantly
Last call for crickets
Singing halfheartedly

Certainty comes only of ignorance
In such wilderness as this
Each hand grasps another
Until it all tumbles in unison

Ah, the carnage
In the style of exiles
So self-consciously
We sail on the edge of winter

Damascus

Red sky over Homs
A faint riffle, a stirring
Of late summer breeze
Among the searing flesh
And the fly benighted airs
A brief hope of relief
From the deadly heat.

Meanwhile, over Damascus
The whiff of colonial pasts

Summer haiku

Finally, the cool
Gives way to sweltering sun
August descending