So It Goes
One misstep and the river
takes you. Not so in love,
the heart a steady stream
of words. Not so in a log
fire, the laggard a chute
of sound in the end.
Not so in silence, the well
a drawing of the mind.
Not so in the walk back
to the cabin late at night,
a wrong turn a right turn
to light. Not so in bed,
the joining a separation
from all the imperfections
floating down a passage.
The Canon
It has all been said says the man
trying to say what has not been,
silence his exile and silence his home,
the canon his wall and vision.
And it will be like this till the end
for he who is seeking to add flight to the fleeting,
words his record and words his erasure,
the canon his brick and window.
While we who toil in the shards
are sharpened by his air,
his mirror our ailment and his mirror our cure,
the canon our edge and landscape.
And it will be like this till the end
for we who are seeking to add meter to matter,
the ephemeral our lyric and the ephemeral our stone,
the canon our crypt and scripture.
The Song
The song is never the song it was,
the melody never quite the same.
Nothing presses the same way twice
in the mind, the composition of memory
a side; a lover’s hand, traveling
the length of silence, knows this––
the candle’s flame, touching darkness,
traces its dance on the wall.
It happens I am not the song I was,
the step in my step not quite the same.
Nothing releases the same way twice
in the years, the body of notes
a key; my imprint, holding
the measure of dissolve, sounds this––
the candle’s flame, touching light,
draws its form in the heart.
