I thought to come to a blank page
Because swirls and clouds are
Crowding in my head and heart.
I had a notion to excavate
The granularity.
Well, here I am,
I’ve no idea what all that agitation
Was about, except a flash of insight:
Beauty’s no mood or recognition,
No, true as breath
In every second
In every glance or affect
Pinwheels snowing,
Scent of patchouli, mesquite,
Memory drifting off
Into a saving for another time,
The softness of this isolation—
This is beauty, everywhere
Still
…I see the trouble coming
The train is on an old track
Arriving when it’s neither
Night nor day, the trestle trembling
And no whistle blowing to
Haunt the strangeness
Of the interstitials, and
Even if I wanted to,
There’s not one thing that I could do
But let it arrive.
Perhaps this solitary
Is something to be reckoned with,
The tide comes in, the tide goes out,
Examined closely for some implicit lack
Or message
I think,
Depending on the view,
I have a choice: I can
Wrap myself in the beauty of
This emptiness or move,
As well, into
The sweeping shallows
