[her left eye]
A future is not a past
A future is not now
Now is what I have
for a future
Green soft sweater
that mom gave me
Today I might walk the track . . .
But even before that . . .
Now I’ll work
Page by page
One page, one line
Haydn singing in swirls
around a green soft
with a gravity-bound body
weighted under it
Now is hot coffee, a cigarette
Not yesterday, not last week, not Saturday
not last night’s darkness
Now is something of this morning’s
drive to work, a cigarette, ashes tapped out the window
human voices, talk, writing on the radio, sound cuddling a car
into a garage, swinging around to level four and couching into
a place with grease dribbles unique to that part of the concrete
Something of John smoking outside the door to the elevator
Monday, isn’t it?
A past is dead, has death in it,
will sink a person in search of it.
Remember this lesson.
The past is whole,
won’t be segregated from its parts
My mistake. A mistake.
Mistakenly taking the unctuous edge
for the center, the radiant warm center.
Rather it is an oozing wound
with fever on the edges
I saw. It glowed
like divine light, like bliss.
And when a woman makes a mistake like this
she has to go on
over the rocks to find a place
where she can try again, have another
chance, please, give her another
And she can’t go back.
She must make a life for herself.
Must make a life wrung out of the old truths in her
–or not at all–
on the rock, old stone,
that shamelessly speaks its own inevitable truth.
Its voice is deep.
Like a hurt woman.
I like it. I try to speak its truth.
It sounds of wisdom.
It enfolds the past
that lays to rest, still as that old stone,
all that was
Its voice is the kiss of a mother.
I try to speak like her
So . . .
thank you for a clean kitchen floor
for Baron’s clean bowl
that die beautifully, today