she idly wondered in the conversation
where does the time go
I answered Idaho it goes to Idaho
startled by this she laughed
then looked thoughtful
I explained further
it’s true though most don’t know this
Idaho has a huge reserve of buried time
just sitting there waiting
no one knows why or what to with it
or even how to access it
but if you run out of time try Idaho
when it happens and it must
will you sit beside the uncertain moment
stunned into a concrete pose
then begin to weep when you find your voice
and in this childish abandon
hear the work that you have to do
again and again until you don’t
this life short as any so now is the time
will you turn away in fear and say
I do not dare I do not
then grasp the banister tightly
as you hurry down the staircase
tripping over coffee spoons oyster shells
chased by questions of lingering intent
again the knowledge you have work to do
or not
the fog the dusk the narrow streets
the evening the tea the silent seas
the snicker and the scuttling claws
relax relax let go
no need to return from any death
be a prophet, a fool, or attendant lord
hear mermaids sing or drown beneath waves
all these already yours
breathe
say you are happy
(you are) enough to do these things
drape a grin across the chair
wry to match the Midcentury mod
be careless with laughter
so it clumps like dust in every corner
leave spare joy in the outside lobby
for anyone who lacks their own
simcha poretz geder
how long have you been gone
always
I have never been here
or there or anywhere
poised on the threshold
of forever
curiously looking into these rooms
knowing that for me
the first step will be lethal
I am friendly as a golden dog
offer stories with a nonchalant hand
share belongings if I see a need
but I am watching always
subtle shifts unnoticed tells
giveaways in tone and body
that signify intent
let the casual take me for naive
my smile can sharpen into a knife
if you’re lucky, I’ll just walk away
before you see the blade
realize what you’ve lost retrace your steps
look in doorways loading bays dirty back alleys
you won’t find missing pieces
the heart that shatters at every kindness
the mind that breaks on each piece of art
the sense of self that becomes so fluid
you leave it oozing over a rail somewhere
these are commonplace gimcracks
you can get used at any cheap store
in the pages of a thriftstore paperback
on the screen from an endless telenovela
you seek what will map you back in place and time
a smile that shines for every stranger
that brilliant cut stone set just so above the window
the crow that sits so still it becomes part of the sign
gather these and with a laugh
mix them into yourself then let them go
walk away whole again but go on to lose more
repeat and repeat
the chant of refuge
the ring of the bell
the water hitting the cup
the leaves in the water
I cannot make tea
I cannot break silence
both rest in themselves
breathe
I sit beside myself, an absence waiting
not to be filled nor emptied
just there as another way to be
I watch as I lift a cup
seeing thoughts drift here and there
attended to only as the weather
no distraction from the tea
fragrant and green with a vegetal edge
perfect in this moment
nothing can happen nothing can change
the morning will always be
the blast of the train before it blocks the road
and the crows sharpening their gaze
remember how heavy time hung in the air
in the hot afternoon of childhood
moments dripping like limp leaves from the mimosa tree
disappearing faster than that one cicada brood
every labored breath took me forward
every fall a type of momentum
early lessons that any route leads somewhere
even for the dead
and when you walk down the street
that one line so sharp incisive
piercing your heart your gut the base of your spine
you leave a bloody trail
memories blending with viscera in your wake
you don’t even realize this until you stop
then cannot reach for the door
you are missing an arm a leg a rib or two
but still stand lost in wonder
the beauty worth the unseen cost
