There’s no bottom to its murky depth
No end its ribbony aroma
I swear it gives me living breath
And revives me from my coma
Alas! There’s not enough of it
In my one and lonely cup
I search in vain for the final bit
But nothing’s left to conjure up
And now I read there’s fear of drought
To wither up the smallest sprout
No plants, no beans, just wretched doubt
My stash of coffee’s running out
Who are you? I say.
I am no one, she replies,
and everyone.
I ask, What does death mean?
It means a life
and nothing more.
I ask what she misses most
about being alive.
Nothing, she says,
except everything.
I ask if all the dead
become ghosts.
No, she says, many dissolve
like tears in the ocean.
I ask if the dead
count the time.
Time, she says, is the
Landlord, you are
a squatter.
I ask if dead
souls live forever.
I will ask the fire,
she says, if the ashes
remember it.
I was a captain of the sky
clouds around my head
like a laurel wreath
eyes fixed on the cresting moon
elbows dancing, and then
in the spark of an instant
lost, all lost,
just a vague memory
until time scrubs the words
from this stone
Trees, drunk with snow melt,
push buds through winter skins,
impatient crocuses bustle from the soil.
Everywhere something stirs,
its long sleep nearly done.
The wind blows without a bite,
birds are on the wing.
Long ago, it was gulls that called.
Now it’s wild geese.
Suddenly, I’m old,
every day a gift;
it was always so
had I but known it.
We put these offerings out
into the blunt nothing of tomorrow,
then wheel about and drift off
impatient to gather more
and all our works and amusements
all delights and suffering
lie unclaimed
sliding into yesterdays
they will waste until our bones
are no more than a smear
beneath a rubble
until we and everything
known to our kind
have vaporized and seeded the cosmos
and somewhere the light is lifting
and fragments gather into wholes
exiles child 