The Ancestors
For Kathie and Norman Fischer
1
There’s a sinking reverence at the edge of logic. Flies in the creek race over the light. If it weren’t for gravity we would not drown, but also would have no flight.
2
Centuries continue to unfold before us, and because of us, and to spite us. An unspeakable heartache pervades everything. A broken pillar blocks the road—that’s why we are here.
3
Sun breaks everywhere. Even the shadows are singing. A bird the color of lightning takes a bath, and after that? But no matter.
4
So much easier to hide between roots than dangle from the tree ledge. We live and live, what else can we do? A single white hair reminds us of angels.
5
A writhing bee lands at my feet then hurls itself into the creek. I bring it to land with a palanquin leaf. It dives back in, floats away.
6
A brief encounter in a close dark room—but isn’t every meeting like that? Words are little veils we use for dancing. Then we stand, open the door.
7
Stone rolled up a mountain path over traceless footprints from across distances. Feet that ascend and descend, and catch crooked as they go. I see you, feet, don’t think we haven’t been friends forever, together asking the questions.
8
What is this bright longing song of no-song? I watch a lizard on a stone and watch it watching me—where and in whom is the watching? I open my palm and there it is, a palm. Abundant radiant circle of flies.
9
All looking comes to a standstill in time. Have you ever considered the back of an eye? In which direction it is pointed, what is its alignment. A tuft of lichen in the crease of a stone. There is simply nothing more.
10
A father does not die, a daughter becomes an eclipse. And what of the monk who stands at the side and disrobes to reveal another?
11
Even from the lip of a sidewalk I seek abysses. Death is a language we will never learn. It speaks us into its lair.
12
Old cows are immutable and abiding and also nothing but cow. Even a capital COW could neither be more nor less than a cow. To splay ourselves and say this and this, and yes of course that, that and that, that is always this but if there is never any this this, never a cow, a really old cow, how could there ever be a friend, a smile, anything moving at all?
13
The whole body chanting.
14
This courtyard precludes dancing, the music is on the hill. Anywhere, a child is falling and passing out of time. The universe seems unmovable.
15
Always talk of waking up, getting up, being up, going up and up and upwards. But what of going down, lying down, two bodies intimately adjacent, prostrate on a bridge.
16
Joy defies systems. It is its own seat at the table. There is simply no way to go on. The going does this for us.
17
I dream of a sound that will draw moans from trees. Sound that never lands. In this dream, I am something more than a handful of letters. I crawl inside an apple seed and potential is mine.
18
The whole body a basin of water spilling down a slope.
19
A woman sits alone at the base of a tree. This is self-evident and forbidden. Still, each and every breath is dangerous. There’s a Houdini-like quality to the structure of existence. Awareness reveals a trapdoor.
20
What is the one?
21
The one is what.
Interiors
Ungraspable
sunshine
graced on
the kitchen
floor
this sun so
emptying out its
everything
in through
a meager entrance
can nearly peel an eye
can
almost taste space
you
your eyes are leaving
they have embarked
elsewhere
and then?
a last walk to the market
a soundless sitting
* * *
Doors follow walls
the air is
stuffed with
sickness
see
a bend in
the rafters
and
life can no longer be
touched
your handprint
seared
to the doorframe
days spill out the rim
spilling
* * *
Tying knots into
your feet
you long to set sail you sail
across the room
all corners known
at last
that which is holding you
is held
to be utterly hopelessly
lost—
what could be more holy?
* * *