clouds, or fog

it’s just a hint, really. a whiff of acrid smoke

sickly sweet, like you just stepped in dogshit,

and haven’t had the chance to clean your shoes.

i know that smell, and wonder if this is how i smelled

for the better part of a decade – surrounded by a cloud, or a fog –

like flowers, maybe, oblivious to everything but myself;

skin, self-contained. other smells fill my mind:

sandalwood, patchouli, ylang ylang.

sitting in my apartment, sometimes alone

and sometimes not alone. reading, writing,

making art or making love. one way or another,

it was hiding. so many things were hidden.

so many things.

                        i wish i could remember

more about those days. those moments

are fugitive still, they sniff around the edges

of regret, always just out of reach, firing

the limbic system, amygdala and hippocampus

shaking hands and lighting up

the past and present.

gardens

there are too many words, maybe

i don’t have enough of them at the ready.

the beginning always takes such effort -

stringing along the words,

stitching them together

in long skeins across time and

remember me when i am in my dotage

and i no longer have so many words.

the end always comes swiftly, lumbers

among the words, shakes them

like flowers, pulls some up and discards them

in piles, sets others aside

for pressing.

                    if you leave the roots

they often grow again. insistent,

releasing their fragrance,

other gardens calling you to tend them.

simply perform the task of attending,

setting things in order, arranging

words until everything is full.

and stands still.

                         or goes to seed. or dies.

smiling

We were walking towards each other. Your head was down. You looked up and saw me. Smiled. As a reflex. Evidently. Because almost as soon as you smiled, and realized you smiled, you stopped. And I wanted to ask you why? Why did you smile? Was it a learned response? Nervousness? A desire to be liked? I’ve known the smiles of other women. I’ve seen come-hither smiles. I’ve seen smiles born of embarrassment, and a desire to end the conversation. I’ve seen smiles I can fall into, and have.

When you smiled at me I smiled back. I tried not to. Still. I registered your awkwardness. Wondered at it. Should I not have smiled? Should I have smiled more broadly? Did you misinterpret my smile? Perhaps you have known the smiles of other men. Perhaps those smiles came with expectations. Perhaps they showed their teeth, or tried very hard not to. Perhaps the smile is different before and after. What makes you more afraid? The before, or the after? Would that neither of us had ever smiled.

there are too many broken

there are too many broken

moments. there is only so much

music one can bear. there is

only so much weight

one can carry. the answers

are both more complex

and simpler than we would like.

there will always be more steps

once the burden has been exhausted.

there are choices one makes.

perhaps they lead to freedom.

sometimes they make pain an ornament.

the way home is often poorly marked.

everything we see we see dimly.

you feel your way along the wall

and hope for a door.

a window does no one any good.

the truth is there is always a way in.

sometimes the way isn’t easy.

nothing worth fighting for ever is.

attention

i’ve always been the slowest walker.
in any group, it is always me who lags
behind, who arrives slightly out of breath.

it has always been thus. i suspect
it is because i have no expectations
for my arrival. i know what i will find.

therefore i always leave early.
i set the clocks five minutes ahead.
arriving on time means there is still time.

the days are already so full of hurry.
schedules tight like skin, so full,
the pressure of departure and arrival.

everything rushes: the blood in the body,
the body through space, electric synapses,
mid-day traffic, the earth in its orbit.

try to find the still point. take a moment
to breathe, and find the center,
a target for attention, fulcrum.

find a way to measure pace, marking
meter and rhyme, finding the cadence
of footfall and windfall and nightfall.