Life

At one time or another

we all migrate to the perimeter,

and the cold skin of our backs

press against the slippery, outer walls

of this living story.


There, with side-tilted heads

like troubled dogs, we stare down,

skeptics in empty, ransacked bleachers

where it occurs to us that we must be

lost in some elaborate figment

of our imagination

or actors in a production of sorts,

an improv maybe, or a modern day film noir

all put on, pseudo-electric lighting and all,

dressing rooms abandoned

so that we can go make our cameo appearance

in your dream

hunkered over in some dimly lit alley

you may or may not glance down

as you walk between your car

and the opera.


If finally, I find, that this is,

in fact the case,

I'm afraid I'm going to have to excuse myself,

and return to the sharp grace of silence:

the empty moments,

before my mind's eyes

receive the morning,

before I start dividing it

into ornate arrays of objects,

like fragments of colored rock

sprinkled into my empty kaleidoscope.


That is our heritage:

the ever-accessible silence,

just bring your hand to your palpitating heart,

it's lingering there between the thuds,

like the momentum-accruing pause,

between winter and the upsurge of spring.