Puddle

It’s spring, and there may not be much time left. What matters? Let’s begin the process of elimination, and let’s begin at the top. Am I interested in what happens to me? No. Things have happened to me before, I know what happening is. The velocity of this rain is a fraction more or less than any I’ve previously experienced, so what. Am I interested, then, in what happens to others? There is a mantis I can’t see, beneath layers of decayed leaves. Set aside questions of what the mantis wants, how it wants, or whether its wanting runs along the same gutters we know, and just go for the mantis itself. Is that enough? Ha! Now set this aside, too; who cares what’s been asked of this or that. We know what asking is, we know what it leads to and what it’s all about. Give me a puddle. Maybe it’s February, maybe it’s May, whatever, I’m not interested. The puddle’s got an edge: at some point a puddle must end and the world must begin. Now we’re getting closer to the important shit. Look to the left. There’ll be some sort of conifer, water-laden, or a single duck. In any case, don’t worry, there is enough of whatever you see for everyone, images are infinite that way. I’m not interested in your proofs against this, didn’t I basically just say I’m not even interested in what I’m saying? Step in the puddle. There is no other means of doing what we’re doing now. Cup the cool water in your palm. It’s not matter that makes matter matter, and it’s not the sign of the cross. So what is it? We’re finally coming to it now. The duck quacks, and then again, maybe it doesn’t. Go deeper. If you can, fit your whole body in the puddle. If you can’t, all is lost. At its very center is the thing that will make the puddle, and everything, new. That’s it. I’m interested in that. Is it baptism? Stop, please, your attempts at understanding are getting in the way. It’s this. Pay attention! This. Go all the way in the puddle now.

Early Spring in Montreal as the Snow Melts in Dusty Clumps

I only wanted to give it to you
the way the world
gave it to me

wanted to tell you what I saw
with the words my eyes used
not these

I wanted a person I could
get near without hurting
the nearer I got

wanted everyone to know it
and for it to still be 
my secret thought

I only wanted nothing 
to be less than 
what it was!

and for this to be 
—why couldn’t it be?—
not wanting too much

This Long Tunnel

I am looking down a tunnel
infinitely long

my vision 
is infinitely clear

I see movement

is that you
dear one?
is that you

waving 
at 
me?

My Wretched Hunger to be Known

the child outside the game
enters
by only one means

pretends she is something,
crosses over
at cost to her being

and—this is no metaphor—
chooses
one of seven billion teams

the heart is the eye

the heart is the only eye
that can see this 
thousand eon
bonfire
whose sparks are our galaxies

once, long ago, I saw its light 
in a tea lamp 
there was no one in the church
its small flame made a long hall of the darkness
guiding no one

it searched

became 
a tongue 

that licked
the
tinder