Walking at dusk again,

and stray lines tap

on my mind’s window,

looking for a poem.

I’ve seen her

dancing on waves

of an orchard breeze

I’ve seen

a rainbow born of

a black hole

My steps are crooked,

my thoughts are jagged.

If your country is

exile

in a way are you

always home

I’ve worn a trail into

grass, walking under

these towering trees.

Each night I track the moon

charging slowly

through shreds of cloud.

You may see me here,

talking outloud

to no one.

In the thin air of a dream

God’s eyes

are the colors of rust

You may see me,

a stray word looking

for a language.

The record plays as I

open a window,

and Chopin’s 24^th Prelude

finds the night air,

slowly at first,

then completely—rising, respelling

cloud cover,

stars, galaxies,

light from every corner

of the known universe—behind which

lies a darkness

waiting for each ancient note,

originless,

by the time they reach it—

And I stand here

far below,

alone again, pure, coming

apart—joining

everything,

slowly at first, then all at once,

as the music fades.

At the foot of eternity, the first breath

our world draws is

its last—Sometimes I can see our whole

story, but then I forget

as the day turns.

I can’t change

anything, I can’t undo

what will be done.  So is the word

of Heaven—an utterance

yet to be made.

We are all together, connected,

and definitively

alone.  So is the word, so is

the silence—We know it

only by the shadow it casts.

We are born

in a curl of fire—We learn death

in the dawn of our lives—We learn

love, hunger,

fear and gratitude.  We see the holy

garden

just as it begins to burn.