Matter

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What you know is there, there is
You sixth-sense the far rumble from many-a-mile 

With barometer’s grace, you notice the change 
In the air, in your knees, in the bees
An ambery atmosphere resonates now 

As it all becomes new, what you thought you knew 
Turns a corner and trouble you find

Want turns to need and then back again 
The dance in the walk of your days spins, then stumbles
Love lives deep and cannot tell why

The quiet speech inks the world and your skin
This means everything -beyond that, nothing

Can Dream

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I want at eighty

Aged fingers aching, you ask from your dustless desk

That I sit on your lap

“Come here my dear,” your mind tells mine, and I run from the garden to you

My muddy hands press each vowel as soft as you silently wish

Consonants requiring more, you place your hands upon mine

The numbers, my math, needs your correction “17-something…” I say

My age, you know, my dear

God Said

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I might’ve left you there
On the floor, propped up near the door
Gingerly wrapped in plain brown paper 
Instead, as I remember, I scooped you up gladly
Wanting to know why
Shouldn’t you be placed in the center of it all
In the gathering place
So that if they cared
Everyone could know

Cat

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Would that you unwrap me

Slowly winding off the dressings distressing me

While I drift peacefully, mind and limb reposed now 

Resisting my nocturnal nature 

Into eve’s restful comfort, then

With morning might pounce 

To repay you for eased night