When It Happens (rough draft)

When It Happens

The wind arises
when we don't think.

Our memories are shards
of glass, overcome
by meadow's dew,
the petals' fragrance
suspended over our reflection.

What I could be
is more than enough.
I am standing over
watches that have worked
out of time.

I have lost the moment -
I am everywhere.

A Day at Sand Point

A Day at Sand Point

I was born with a red traffic light
set outside the hospital window.
Ambling the crosswalk
was a lanky high-runger with curly hair,
his mustache itching from an unknown cause.
A small brigade of crows
had latched on to electric wires,
where the frigid morning wind tossed
their unassuming, straw-like limbs.

I had no time to be in blankets.
From another life, a hole had been blown
in my heart - the doctor's requested that I stay
with their knife and operation lights
until I forgot the hand of my mother.

Thoughts

Thoughts

Sometimes they are ringing
incisions, when to listen to them
you believe you have spoken.

They could be crooked-mouthed birds
singing without melody, hanging from a tree
far away, strained from your dispassion.

Maybe clotted rodents by the door
whose fear prevents the will
of their feet to intervene our silent joys.

Or rushes that split the wind
though the air continues like colors
mixed by its opposite tone.

But before they have penetrated us
and we believe their stories,
they are flits in a still air

ruled by an unnamable fixture
that was once named by our birth
and bound to what we were to become.