Pleasure
The block finds pleasure,
all that it needs,
as it is slipped into
the place conceived for it,
that spot where it truly fits:
snug, smooth, clean
without jiggle or sway.
To build such happiness for wood
is what the carpenter does or should.
But for the man,
to plan and measure for himself
an insertion with a click, a rest, an absolute to it
is to be both architect and material at once,
a feat not easy to arrive at.
And so we say, "pleasure," rarely;
sigh with relief, not often.
Not seeing that ours is not
the permanence of studs and joints
but just that of trying —
the place where that is done,
the only place we fit.
And that is the meaning of our pleasure:
the meaning is the trying.
The Toys on the Floor
Rain water falls
on the cement Buddha,
beats and blackens it
with moss and furry growth in patches.
Bird shit too, collects,
white streaks
on its head, its shoulders.
Leaves from jeering trees
stick,
decay,
streak it red.
Frost holds hands with it
breaking its appendages.
The wind hurls its demands,
its anger at not being answered.
Time scuffs and rubs
and wears it old,
patinas it with its own postulates.
Still, the core of it remains,
the core unchanged.
Still, the look,
the expression unmoved,
the stare beyond
inconvenience,
indignity,
beyond
the toys on the floor.
Within the Walls
When the bees in the wall
whisper-their-wings and purr,
It feels as though some great internal organ
were directing everything
from somewhere within.
And I stop,
in the otherwise silent house,
and I listen.
Beneath the ice the fish dart,
long as commandments,
fast as impulses.
And I find that I believe.
From under the ground,
where I plant my feet,
the earth furrows,
and for an instant
I see the teeth,
the mole below
that I didn’t expect or know.
And I feel the bite of doubt.
Yet, when I turn my head away
the steel of thought cuts deep,
shimmering and glinting.
The honey pours and the wings purr.
And I feel myself let go.