For the Old Habit of Writing Letters

O, letter writers beware-a time's
at hand when even your band
will disappear from the earth.
Even though I’m one of its fertile
reminders of god as are you & the grass.  I am

writing you because
I don't want to appear lost,
although that's what I'm thinking
these days.   Turning like a yellow
hot dime, our sun, as they say,
brought me in but doesn't care—
I mean besides the lack of air,
I 'm a tranquil meteor going nowhere.

So in this late afternoon ramble
I meet you head long, having done
a million sacred penetrations
and watched the newest perturbations

appear on my screen
as if to confirm your presence.
Like the astronomer I am who I am,
cutting back on the view
to enjoy the blur.

So what song did you sing tonight?
There's been a bunch of folk walking
by and the light over the Miami
is thick with golden autumn light,
the light we'd like to say is like
a song, a perfect whistling
that never goes away.

O, letter writers be good!  Let
the hornet honey feed you wildly
so that you grow in the woods
like a bear.  I have nothing for you,
not the seed, not the time, not
the little ride we made
when we were young and full of grace.

In the holy holy space of the page
I am like the runner going by,
forcing myself into the cold air
for something that's really
unattainable-- aren't we all
forged from heat?  Don’t we all

here the same song in the wind,

in the woods all alone?

Like Shade in the Shadow


The darkness at the end of my tunnel is a bad darkness.
All told, it is swirling with desire and instinct
Like a tree in autumn wind, unleashed, perhaps
Going nowhere. Like the train I hear in the distance
At night when everybody else has gone to bed.
In my head, there will be dreams later on
of lawns and tranquil sheets of red leaves
spread on lawns, in the shade, where it is
thick as briars or ivy that darkness which invades
my head. And as if someone’s asked me to name
it specifically, I know I can only conjure the rich
deep greens of late summer, the shade
on the other side of the hill which is wet
with life, where the yawning end of the world begins.