Believe you me,
I am not a somebody,
for I am
a pulse of a struggling heart
bone and flesh,
hate and art; a perfect pitch
tone deaf pilgrim,
steadily waking veins to thrum and lungs
upwards; I’m a ringing.
your standard grandfather clock,
a fraction late on
the hour. A velvet drape
that in weight
fights the wind with a loving bend.
unwilling to bow down to
lavish men and
who are growing souls in and so
if I seem
a bit preoccupied with the greensward
I lie in,
with the sensing of a nigh
with the discernment of a Shakespeare and
Sir Francis Bacon, with the
things beneath stones wriggling I am
not sorry; I have no more patience
for a midnight
And take your time; that is my advice.
There is no rushing when
the light chooses not when it will be spent.
What wax have you been given?
—I don’t know.
But, laughter and
a hand on a shoulder in gentle poetry
is worth the slowing.
And believe you me,
I don’t know,
any more than you or snow or
that don’t say words;
I don’t know.
When the sea rises,
when the ocean bends knee to the will of the moon
not far; a walk is not a habit,
but a force, and it should be me
that walks, not a shadow,
not a thought;
mine own body
A dream is no longer a dream if you remember when you wake; it is a memory.
There is no truth, for goodness sake;
there is only living,
and dying. And they are not the same.