Things Seen From A Great Height

THINGS SEEN FROM A GREAT HEIGHT


So  I sit at the window of the
tenth floor looking down at a city like a jewel
in the middle of a desert so ordinary in daylight
it might be anywhere in the world. Palm trees,
birds running along the edges of rooftops below,

not afraid of falling because they are birds,
men walking, and taxi's in the streets. I have
a fear of falling from high places. Even if
I had wings I would be afraid. I know the sound
the wind makes, rushing past my ears as I fall

faster every second. But not today. They say
when you fall in a dream you never reach the
bottom,  but simply disappear down the gullet of 
some sucking Black Hole.  Some night, maybe
soon, I will fall in a dream and not wake up.

Sometimes I fly in dreams. Maybe on that night
I will just fly away like a bird, these things seen
from a great height engraved on the inside
of my skull, things past, things present, and
things veiled at the margins, yet to be.


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Postcard from the Edge

POSTCARD FROM THE EDGE



So I began to write on this thin scrap of narrow paper that said: Love's Texaco #220 Cheyenne, WY Date 07/25-05 Time 05:23 PM, wishing I had a real piece of paper to write on, but glad for this scrap. Much later I sat at the window of the tenth floor looking down at a city like a jewel in the middle of a desert so ordinary it might be anywhere in the world. Palm trees, birds running on the edge of rooftops of buildings below, not afraid of falling because they are birds, men walking, and taxis in the streets. I have a fear of falling from high places. Even if I had wings I would be afraid. I know the sound the wind makes, rushing past my ears as I fall, faster every second. But not today. They say when you fall in a dream you never reach the bottom, because if you do reach the bottom you will die in your sleep. Some night, maybe soon, I will fall in a dream and not wake up. Sometimes I fly in dreams. Maybe on that night I will just fly away, like a bird. I am out of paper. Having a great time! Wish you were here!

Straying From Your Star/ No Return

STRAYING FROM YOUR STAR



This early snow is deep and heavy
It clings to the trees like new sashes and scarves

Last night I heard the F-16's
practicing their 30 Code sorties

It was not like a car going over my house
or hearing any number of cars

There is a lot of stress in these things they say
and I wonder: for whom

If it's not the Afghans it's the Chechens
The children of the Afghans look a lot like

my grandchildren in Oregon, and the children
of the Chechens like my little ones in Jordan

and all their sons, like mine, are Adam
and all their daughters, Eve (which are many)

We lie quietly together, loving one another
and when they are fast asleep in bliss

I lose my fears, looking for a loving touch
I would not burden them with my sadness

which is part of my punishment for being a poet
because, when you are making something beautiful

of words, everyday words that could become hymns
or plans or even prayers or blessings

layer by layer, with consummate care
a mistake could be disastrous

because, if you are not careful and precise
with their structure, the metaphors

running beneath their surface might crack
If you crack them your forgiveness is uncertain

because you know that gravity gets weaker
the farther you stray from your star



NO RETURN


You will feel nothing until
you get to the point of no return

And you know that heavy objects
make the water ripple, and no one's life

is ever safe. Forces attract
and are repelled, and bodies move

and you know what Dante said
at the entrance to Hell

and you go about speaking words
or writing them. It is rumored

that Our Lord Jesus Christ will rise
again. I have given up sweets for Lent

except for chocolate, which is after all
only a bean. Hosanna

Then I think I am Light wading through
a kind of Light I can barely remember

I see my mother is in the kitchen
making hot cross buns

And this Light tastes
like cinnamon and raisins

My brother pours syrup on pancakes
stacked to the moon

his favorite thing. A perfect storm of broken cells
took him, elegant neurons, a billion units

of blown away DNA. I listen
to Mahler's Eighth, the Symphony

of a Thousand, and I wonder
Will I ever sleep again

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