Monday, February 28, 2011


charles sprague pearce reading by the shore

she brought herself to this place
already knowing
the nonchalant pose
even the title of the book being read


last night
she had been reading poetry
and drinking wine
in a small candle-shadowed apartment
drifting aimlessly

in that moment of then
the air moved slowly
through an open window

she could see
thick and golden
in the gaslight flare


in this moment of now
she is remembering

holding the rice paper umbrella's
lacquered stiffness
and forming
soft words with her eyes

sand and water
its coming and going

and she lies
as if washed ashore
tangled and overlooked
like so much seaweed

Thursday, February 17, 2011


if you polish the rough edges off
the outside of my inside
does some of the surface smoothness
descend inside?

Friday, February 11, 2011

to be becoming

there are places of confluence
of intersection
placess of mutual support
and places
that slow growth
until we move past

and looking back
at each
as a waystation
a place
in which we were negotiating
our path

looking back
at each
as a place in which
our intentions
were forestalled
or sent
in an entirely unexpected direction

we can see
these places
as layers
that have over time
settled beneath the surface
of our experiencing

perhaps still affecting
our trajectory
our path

we are what we were
to be becoming

Friday, February 4, 2011

a place of silence

i have a strong sense
of passing through this place
in the life i am living as steven

but i know that i am not steven
well, not exclusively
not precisely
not only

i know that
steven is "i"

the first few layers

i also know
that unpacking the "i" of steven
you'll find a collection of maps
of the knowing of himself
as perceived by himself
and then also
as perceived by others

steven is a history of events and ideas
that have been borrowed
and assembled
to create something
that is
almost an object
as real as can be sensed by the senses
felt by the heart
and known by the mind

but pull all of that away
and put it
in the drawer
of the one great moment

and i bet that there's a silence
deeper than any winter woods

no tell-tale footprints left behind
whose stories can be tracked and told

no fluttering of the wings of worldly wisdom

no birdsongs of revelation

just a place of silence


i am the wind that wavers
you are the certain land
i am the shadow that passes
over the sand

italicized words excerpted from "i am the wind" by zoe akins