Everything is small.
We can say the whole
length of the Danube
in one word. Ister.
Or the largest thing on earth
has such a small name. Sea.
And the one who wakes us
every morning without fail.
You have to say a whole
lot of words to say less.
22.X.22
If again
wakes, looks
at mirror
asks am I
two of me
or is seeing
dreaming still?
22.X.22
The broken pavement
the boy sheltering from rain
his head bent to shield
the book he studied,
Hebrew fluttering pages,
Or Aramaic, was it kabbalah,
I closed my eyes, he was gone,
sunset, no rain, the road
cracked still at my feet.
How far to go. How far
is it really from one to two,
can we get there in an hour,
can I get there in one life?
I knew at least I was that boy
once, the print was Greek,
doxa, mere opinion, falsehood?
Or thinking on its way to reason,
a guess, a book lost long ago.
21 October 2022
yes it is dawn after all
the dark receding
into the trees
weaves me with almost
a world to see,
little world, bushes,
birdbath, fence—
and fence means town
and town means true,
city, all of us and you.
The little song again
seeps from the sky.
20 October 2022
Soak a face cloth
with warm water,
wring it out a little.
Now rub it firmly
slowly on the stone
nearest your door.
Then carefully wring
out the last few drops
into a glass, you’ll want
an ounce or two. Then,
only then, set it out
in the sun, that very
night in moonlight
or darkness if no moon.
Next day take a scant
teaspoon of it. This
will cure you of time.
19 October 2022
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