Dawn: the heat of day
is still a rim of morning.
Here, in Algeria, Camus
rises with a headache. There
is no compromise - he realizes
this now and his strangeness is
suddenly strange to him.
Midday: the air and body
diffuse water and salt. Here,
down a Paris sidestreet, Sartre
bangs his fist on the desk just
to hear the noise. The glasses
tremble forward on the bridge
of his nose. He will notice when
vision becomes as important as action.
Twilight: below, the jungle
deepens in green-black shadows.
Hammarskjold, wary but unafraid,
remembers flying over the desert;
there had been so many places
If I had to come
back to Earth
and I could choose
what I wanted
not saying it's true
just if I could
I'd like to
come back and be
exiled deep in a forest
remote from civilization
aware of self
on what life
I remember you, do you remember me?
Do you remember us the way we used to be?
I remember your smile and love so fine.
Do you remember your love for me
the way it used to be?
I long to be a new memory for you
and you for me.
Cause I will always love you.
Will you ever love me?
Or leave it just a wonderful memory
to be remembered by just you and me.
You don't love me, I
But I honestly love you,
That is so true.
Please believe that I
I can't do anything
You are just like me,
That, you should be
able to see.
How long have we been
We've survived somehow.
Our love is just right,
I don't want you out
of my sight.
You will soon see,
I am not going to let
you get away from me.
Faith is a creative act
It courts the spiritual muse
It is an imaginative self-sacrifice
To peer into nothing and find everything
As astronomers seek the edge of the universe
As geneticists dance in the footprints of creation
As a flutist blows the perfect breath from perfect lungs
That thrive in utter darkness
There is nothing more perfect
Than to imagine the sound of light
As it reverberates through the body
The most receptive ear imaginable
Once connected to the invisible
To reconnect is the only thing
It is the first fire that heats the soul
It is the soul itself
His rump is planted firmly on the floor.
His pleading eyes look up to me.
He wonders if wagging his tail plaintively
will help his cause.
"No, actually I would put out a dog on a night like this."
My foot pushes him out the door onto the deck.
I wake from sleep hearing
rainwater rattling along the downspout.
Seldom is there lightning or high wind.
Water stands on the lawn of clay.
The dog’s towel scarcely comes
out of the dryer into the cupboard
before it emerges again to dry him.
Flowers, grass, shrubs have forgotten the drought,
though river and groundwater remember.
Hard rain drives the dog down two steps
from the deck onto the soggy ground.
After a month, some complain--
Enough, already! I still celebrate the rain,
uneasy only about all these animals
gathering two by two.
Life after rollicking life
I have littered
but mostly learned
within unclosed loops.
The room where I work
is a monument to
and all my other rooms
imitate such open loops.
Shall I dare to suggest
that every spiral
is an unclosed loop?
And point out that spirals
are the basis of life
on all of its planes?
I have seen, dazzling
in their neatness,
of their punctilious
Do devotees of closed loops
expire with a snap, I wonder?
And will I expire someday
with an ambiguous sigh?
Let's broadly hint that
perhaps people never do expire
but instead subscribe over time
to suitably-spiraled-up bodies,
incremental costumes for playing
parts in this human drama
of infinite run. "Death" is all
the rage these eons, but only
for those who think their eyes
see all there is to see.
Let's even risk wondering
whether supposedly closed loops
might be minor quanta within major
Unclosed as my loops are,
I admit to irritating the tidy.
Closed, the tidy may enjoy
their control, but beyond
their cubishness a universe
swirls with intranesting
spirals that may little praise
the painful righteousness
of an organized desk drawer.
Now, where is that CD
I bought yesterday?
Has it spiraled off?
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