A mountain can erase

a small community at the tip of a fern

with just a shadow.

–

I can’t make the leap

from frond to the present

without vast calculations

beyond my reckoning

… but I’m happy just to gape

with a little manic joy

at the embarrassment we all are

as humans, lesser than fiddleheads.

I barely thought about waffles

the whole time I was with

conifers of the deep woods,

though I admit

the ridges and sticky sap

made me wistful

for breakfast nooks

and pajamas.

This afternoon was

a perfect circle

with jagged edges

comprised of vintage

National Geographic

boobs, 70-year-old maps,

and helpful advice

for the docile housewife

and man-about-town.

I learned about

dreamy post-war ideals

all from within the confines

of a fuzzy blanket.

With a twirl to tom-toms

and a nod to peace,

hordes became quiet

and forgot they were animals,

pretending they were floating

above it all

just for a moment,

and though it will be

forever denied,

it was a beautiful show

of quasi-spirit.

There was the day in Tower Records

in South Philly, the trip to the shore

on a late winter afternoon, and the time

I let go in a car with a song that wasn’t mine.

They’re part of the little hell

I carry with me; reminders of my deep

and lasting inadequacies.

Sometimes I pretend they’re not there.

Mostly, it hurts to be human.