Occasionally, in winter

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.

Oil, water

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.