Ode to Day

I sat in a garden, most serenely, and watched the clouds pass and wind blow through the trees. I sat on a wall and began to write, as rain came through and brought with it, the night.

Day that is a day,
that grows and breaks and dawns again
anew,
before, as after, evening. Day that is
a day and as like those days that went
before, and those many days to come
and yet, between so many,
is as yet alike no other. Day that is
a day so new and just the same
as those to be, and those that were,
which now is here but soon is gone
again,
to come again, and grow and break
and crack the dawn-
know that, as you change
and turn to take your leave, so I do also,
change and turn toward another-
and though I may forget
how you did make me something else
for what you were and brought to me
and maybe- maybe- how slight, at times,
it seemed or felt I may have hated thee;
Yes, hated, for your transparency;
that I always knew that you might change
and were born just so that you might leave,
and in your wake would follow steps
in sadness,- know that though I may forget
for every day that did desert me,
I yet loved you like no other.

Fleeting Chance and Circumstance

A couple of notes, written in retroactive thought about the way my day(s) had worked, fulfilling a design, the likes of which I could not account for.

I feel the sharp stab
of fate's
clandestine knife.
A small gash
just under the ribs,
slit like a fish's gills
and out bleeds all
my circumstance.


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When I say that
'I feel for you',
I don't mean that
I have feelings for you-
but I do-
what I mean, is:
I reach out my arms
under roofs and starless skies
and I try to feel you
in the space that settles
between us;
trying to connect
through aeons of dust,
like slowly throwing out a thought,
or an incantation; a prayer;
a feeling just like love
so it might wrap around you
as I would.

Sleep/lack and Summer

Strange days...
I behold them as like
a vapor-
blurred lines intermingling
faintly drifting away
and what I think I hold
is never something solid
but is prone to drip
through my fingers, or
fade away. Hours,
days- time.
I walk common steps at night
just as I've done many times,
but for all my leaping,
I yet never made it very far;
a corner is rounded:
I am cut on its edge
as I distance myself from
haunts and habits of my past;
slowly drifting
as like a vapor...

                                                                              ***

Predictable motion
the body a vessel
cast upon undulating waves

                                                                               ***

The walls
take on a pattern
just like leopard print
as night descends.
I am cast out
to sea, upon my bed
dipping my limbs
into the turbulent waters
I feel the prick of teeth
cut past my tender skin
and slowly, trees steep
out from yonder blue
which changes from harsh
to be quite demure
and travelling, travelling,
I am kept for hours
without sleep
for I am powerless.