there’s little mystery

except in everything

(looking closely, of course)

like: I know the curve of his face

and the tune of summer night’s birdsong

but I can’t explain

why some waves turn right away

while others flatten like lizards under sun;

mostly I want to understand

where people go in their heads

and can I sometimes go there too?

Give me something true,

not like romance or fire in space

but the best explosion

(virtually silent),

bearing down on a stick

of dynamite,

knowing it’s our end.

Landlocked with marimba

steel and flute and pearled knees

praying to waves answering to moon

salted air trapped in hands and hair

facing one direction

without relief of distraction

–

Years are melting things

stuck together making little sense

backward gazing tripping over feet

humming the song of giving in

and away and up with no end to the roll

I just called myself a tuba and no one noticed.

It’s like when I had to dodge all the groundhog holes

while the craggy man sprayed poison

all over the sweet grass.

That moment of fear and longing led to a rich disgust

when I realized that’s how the world worked;

toot yer horn and be tossed with the weeds.

I took away mercy

from the lineup

and left a gap

only for myself.