modalities

counting people again. i find it
comforting--math
makes sense.

coffee shop this morning has
25 patrons total.

subsets (non-exclusive):

16 laptops
8 with paper and pen
4 in conversation (2 and 2)
3 just sitting (1 and 1 and 1)

and over by the window
a young woman
numberless
with a slice of morning glory loaf
a mug of tea
and a book.

the poet, taking requests

this is not the first time
this has happened to me.

you're a poet? someone says.
well. you should write a poem about
     - zombies
     - the unclassifiable life of slime molds
     - immortal jellyfish
     - my mother, who is wise
     - the birthing process as metaphor
     - texting while driving

amongst others, of course.

each time i nod gravely. i know that
if they have given me this gift, it is because
they suspect a truth lurks there--
fleet metaphor dancing
just beyond their peripheral vision--
and they hope that i
with my broken lines
and sidelong diction
will find the words to make it clear for them.

and i solemnly swear to all you givers of gifts
that every time, i try.
i really do. i have filled a page with words
beneath the title: Immortal Jellyfish

but any poet will tell you: all they ever find
is the sound of their own voice
leaking imperfectly from a pen.

i'm sorry, i have lately learned to say:
you'll have to write that one yourself.

Petroglyphs

(Gibraltar series, probably eventually #6)

some shapes are sacred:

your eyes, your lips,

etched into the canvas

of this granite cliff--

a gift to a future

destined to be

denied your glance,

deprived of your kiss.

my clumsy hands

inscribe you on the world

so love may go on living

when the rest of us is dust.

to live 
just once 
with you

is not enough.

art insists at least

on this: that beauty

not slip past us

unhindered, into the mists.

some shapes are sacred:

your eyes, your lips.