overrun with elephant ears, birds-of-paradise,
pampas grass, plumed with decay.
Tentacles avid, relentlessly accelerate.
Sumptuous excess silences slow wind.
In canopy leaves reach for sky.
Alone here, unlonely,
Between seasons, angled apart, the stone rests on gray schist legs.
Each dry winter, cemented
in their shrunken rigid waterless bed
desiccated stems flake to dust
Leaves of streamside trees
wait for July rain to decompose.
Each rainy summer night it sinks another iota toward its ancestral home
amidst the bedrock
of the river’s underground channel
aslant in the slippery loam
The path a dirt track, no longer wide enough for two people to pass,
once planted, now wild
below steep rock steps a derelict fountain,
verdigris-bronze head on the wall
calcified mouth unable to spout the rainy runoff.
There the bench waited for decades.
Broken sun glints through heavy foliage.
I dream the afternoon.
Words fall through cascade of air.
Lines found in any order,
foundered in the torrent
this reader of stone in the rain.
a a a
Along a wide path,
white with florescent light,
white with cold empty shining air
immaculate, pristine, precise,
five people, a crowd covered in blue,
walk steady and resolute .
on the rolling platform
I dream back this sheltered garden.
The tiny black mystery, size of a fingernail, sends its life out
in threads, ready to take mine in suicidal excess.
They, steadfast under blue lights, mean to murder
this malignant monster.
Silence and noise, garden leaves,
insects and wind, muffled footsteps
A stone in the river ,washed smooth
by twenty years absence,
lies wet in the sunshine.
Gentle in its muddy bed,
heavy in my hand now, its body
contains the igneous history of the world.
A wader in this stream,
I step in the icy flow and fall
against its solid actuality.