I did not want to look back
and say with regret
that I never walked in the rain
too afraid that the water on my face
would remind me of tears
and I would cry in sorrow
that I never stood in the wind
too fearful that the buffets on my limbs
would feel like punches
and I would collapse from their hit
that I never moved within the fog
too frightened that the murk around me
would become like a nightmare
and I would never emerge
so I have made certain to do these
and more
I’ve not looked enough at this stubborn mind
that throws a self like a shadow against any possible wall
that chases after every shiny thing
not seeing its own tawdry glitter spinning in a mirrored disco
that imagines it is the sun and moon
rather than a distorted reflection in some temporary puddle
I’ve not sat enough in the quiet opportunity
and just let myself observe this weather
the changes in the sky and sea
the shriek of the gulls and the howl of the wind
the vast spacious silence
we waited as children
time draped carelessly over our shoulders
so lightly that we did not care
we could find another hour or two or three
hanging warm from the sun
on the line stretched out back
we waited as adults
time crammed into backpacks and bags
heavier now but still unregarded
we’d grab spare minutes along with coffee
whenever we needed extra
we waited as elders
time spread across the table
weighty memories of things that never happened at all
broken pieces of too many jigsaw lifetimes
that trembling hands could not fit together
we died and there was an end to waiting
the pavement is kind enough
to receive a foot step a falling body
the muttered words the loud screams
the mingled incoherence of the street
no judgment given nor any quarter
equal treatment extended to all
a lifelong student of the hard thing
I would become concrete
the stone in the street asks
why do you choose this path
and I answer
when there is no destination
any road will take you there
furthermore say
why do you rest on this pavement
no reply so I pick it up
leave it somewhere along the way
on a windowsill or a bench
there to have different conversations
when the moment hangs so heavy
there right there in front
unexpected after a turn up a street
so that you remember the weight of time
and when you first felt its pressure
again and again these encounters
seemingly stochastic but you know better
look up at the derelict casements
and cracked glass windowpanes
the peeling impermanent glory of ordinary passage
the gritty testament to the beauty of wearing down
with their comfort walk on and take care
to step on each spider-webbed crack in the sidewalk
tea led us into the labyrinth
where we followed different threads
into complex conversations
he is passionate about a desert
and the burning man
an inventor who likes to juggle ideas
with multiple spheres in the air
spinning them with dazzling speed
transparent yet opaque
he used the word magic so often
this clearly was a need
and somehow reminded me of a faraway friend
who quotes with mournful mien
the world is too much with us
I’ve never sought magic and as for the world
I find curiosity and kindness to be enough
the thickening fug of uncertain outcomes
the digital unsteadiness of everyday life
outside the window a bird arcs
dirty feathered wings against the gray grimed sky
a woman sits reading in the rooftop garden
the pages of the book stark white amidst the buildings
I walk down the street for a cup of tea
from a shop where they know my name
our brief greeting warms the weak morning sun
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
