It's illogical

A machine keeps him alive now that his kidneys

will not and he endures it all without a mother 
(she would have nursed him like no
other) but he has me and he has the machine, 
both second best but we keep him going,
all by the force which has a way of pushing 
life through the odds, the cracks, just look 
at the flowers shooting up from the patio fissures 
(I tell him that on his bad days), 
just look at those blind bats that catch a meal 
in the pitch of night deep in the distance,
how they follow the echo, or the mushroom 
that explodes overnight in the junkyard. 
How life abides, goes on by the grace of that
generous force, how it stages its comebacks, 
how it abandons reason and just drags on 
stubbornly, flying in the teeth of it all.
While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, 
day and night, shall not cease.

The movie

There is a pointlessness to it: walking 

past your old bedroom each morning
--I don’t want to make too much of it,
the young are designed to fly the nest--
but every morning the sun lifts over 
the hill outside your window and casts 
the shade into a silver screen of sorts 
and so I lean against your door 
to catch the flick--a trailer really, 
content to play in this room only-- 
of everyday moments, nothing too dramatic, 
jumbled days all, but what a movie.
It always knocks my socks off.

An act of kindness

Let's say you are the widow's middle child

still in Heide braids when you first hear 

goose steps in your town.

Let’s say fresh out of school the Luftwaffe 

offers you a good job, they mention travel. 

Let's say you ride in the back of the Mercedes-Benz

Transformable Torpedo, behind your boss

and his driver when the gates open

and transparent beings pour through the camp 

like rushing water, drenched as if they had risen

from the ocean floor.

Let's say sleep comes and goes that night and 

the next morning you place your breakfast

on the window sill and turn your back 

and when you look again the plate is gone 

and you feel relief that a ghost has eaten 

and you are not arrested, your 

giving hand not cut off. 

Let’s say the next day you repeat this act

of kindness and later when all is over, 

in the dark of night you grieve because

you did not do more. 

And let’s say what was not done 

becomes the story in your life

and your life is a protracted mourning 

for it, for what was not done. 

Sailing

Yes that's what life is like, isn't it?

Like sailing alone in a little boat, 

in fits and starts on a landless planet 

relying on luck and karma for aid,

sometimes our mind and mouth 
yanked open by (or in cheerful ignorance 

of) the killer tendencies all around,

sometimes sitting stilly under squalls 

with feet kicking the waves, 
lavishing our attention on beauty 
or on perils but soon time again to stand up--

the sails must be adjusted

to these ever-changing winds--and

sometimes we are delirious with 

all that physical effort 

(having to make our own wind so often,

so many lightening quick adjustments)

and sometimes lovely birds land on the hull, 

nervous and a bit shriveled, like us, 

singing under the same shower of stars 

because for them too this voyage 

sometimes seems unbearable, this hunger

for consolation their only constant. 

Letter to my body

Body, body, my beloved

from the moment, from that very instant one

invisible fish out-swam a hundred million 

others into that beautiful moon in the mother 

sea and in a dazzling burst made you, 

these coveted days of sleep and wakefulness

are being counted precisely in a secret clock 

and from the moment I knew it was I 

in the cradle I tried to crawl away from the clock, 

I have cried and begged for a world without time,

but you dear body are a ticking time bomb, 

because of you I will not sleep for a hundred years, 

I will not be restored by the kiss of a handsome prince.

You are moving me on a conveyor belt back

into that miracle of nothing-something. 

There is nothing because you are made from it,

you are the puppet of time-space-magic

but so are the stars, so is all matter--

time will ooze from all of it and then 

who knows? Another world remade

from your teeth and hair?

Every single atom rekindled?

Into other miracles I commend you, 

my body, myself.

Chill

I couldn’t take my eyes off her face

in the bed, that silent pre-death repose.

She looks more floral than human, 

her face white as the chill before the bloom,

the skin folding scion-like around her skull, 

protecting the still living root below.

Beside her in a hard chair I watch for hours, 

day after day, my own self now shrinking 

from my dread, from my shock that this force 

(my mother was a lion) can be so undone--

the same dazed astonishment when I saw the scaffold

of a great doomed whale belly up on the sand

of Santa Cruz--a skyscraper of white bones, 

picked clean by who knows what and yet 

still mighty in grace and history.

Flakes

Look, here shines the leaf

dropped from its mother’s arms

into the soft living muck to dry 

in gorgeous shades of death

--corn and saffron, ochre and brass--

and at my touch the crisp veins flake

into a mist of umber snow 

and I watch her demise with longing, 

seeking a bit of solace in it, 

seeking to make peace with it

before the night erases all trace of it.