So an old friend
Arrives
Neither of us suspecting that arrival
And it doesn’t matter,
Except in the days of my life,
To be remembered as
Beautiful friend
From
Miles ago
Renewed in fast moments
In my
Recent
As I struggle for
Understanding
Bereft
Or as always,
Maybe not, at least not yet,
Bereft
And knowing he couldn’t be the
Agent of that, tho
I say,
Oh Lord, very
Fine he is.
Last night,
Making my way down some straight precipices,
In my dream of course,
And perhaps on a mountainous landscape
Among energies undaunted
By a climb,
Or a fall
I remember walking on in
Trepidation
Wondering if in fact I could
Claw my way straight back up
Those channeled precipices
And then
I figured,
I could not, and then
Wanting to be small and lithe, or
Wanting to be
At least an old woman
Worth speaking with—
You know how,
When someone sets aside
Papers, view
Anything
Shifts away toward and
From window, table
Chair
Eye cocks and
Softens
An extra beat in time saying
Perhaps,
An unexpected gesture…
Her unexpected gesture…
I return from a reverie
To a reverie, musing
What, then—
From the corner of my eye,
The dreaming eye,
I see the stairs.
They are the color of
Those steep precipices of clay,
And walking towards them
Miasma, past as always,
I pick up my shoulders
Not so little my time
Different than so little time
In a recognition
I see that, but had I not,
I would not now see
The vast of it
I’ve always seen horizon, and
Just now my inner landscape’s
Verticality.
