iii.

She was relieved.

I heard her say

no one would miss

old games of play,

silly old puns,

oldfashioned songs,

scary laughter

that lasts too long.

iv. 

Now that I have tiptilted the pattern

and scattered the comforting arrangements,

with no promises or claims between

myself and public ground; calling

all life private life, all paths rights of way,

all passers company, all shelter home,

shall I be less angry and less tired

than she became?  More selfish

and more ceremonious?  Smelling

my own smell, claiming my solitude,

shall I elaborate a single path,

curved to my new direction?

How far do these bonds stretch?

Stream Line

There is cutting away

parts too harmed to work again

or play.  Or:  dumb

live animals awake

to ears and tails taken.  There's

jettison of excess, and there is

casting away that does

change me so that I

am another on these steep places, one

who fails to regret what's left

below, even to recall

lost amenity.

                     Oh

children what laughter

belonged to our early

travels we

with effort may remember.

In sleep

I decide what to keep.

Now I see it from here, that need's

too small.  It doesn't call

the animal out, that is wild

and needs wide fields.

Felt directions

can't be spelt out but

they can be followed.

Where that animal

wants, I go, leaving

what's got to be left to get

there.  When I arrive I know.

Where we are shapes us.

Those who belong entirely to no

place have none of the shapes:

their flow, gradual or sharp,

shocks the static

patterned eye.

                             Continue   The Year of This Snapshot

Home Page | Links: American Women Poets and Long Poems | In Love With The Angel | Stream of  Fire  | The Year Of This Snapshot | Death While Traveling | Third Moment | Interactions

Email:  [email protected]