Poetry

Stepping between the shade of old trees
and the brightness of new life
we are reminded again and again
of this difficult, spacious truth:
Our best growth blossoms in soil and sun
opened by loss.

At sunrise, you call to us.
At sunset, you call to us.
We part-time pilgrims,
lunch break contemplatives,
half-hearted seekers—
you welcome us without complaint.
...

I don't know what I want
I don't know what I need
I don't know right or wrong
I would forget my plans
forsake my home
cast off my clothing
dissolve my name ...

The Beloved herself
is incidental—
neither Heaven nor the Way,
just a white rabbit passing by, living
her life, luring you
into freefall. Maybe she becomes
your lover, maybe your dearest friend,
maybe not, maybe
...

A homeless man wrapped in a greasy coat
and an otherworldly calm approached me
as I rushed home from work
down the sidewalk.
"Greetings," he said. "I am you
from the future. ...

Do nothing
having done everything.

Maybe I was wrong
twice—
love is neither finding someone
to fit an ideal,
nor welcoming someone
as she is—

I am learning
to distrust certainty, and learning
to trust

I shed my coat and wondered
how my old friends would react
to the tentacle gliding
across the table edge, fidgeting and feeling out
textures. I have been letting it
explore me and my old haunts—
curiosity killed the cat
but I am not a cat
today. I am a human

The only right sacrifice
in the timeless temple
is to leave
by but one

I need space.

I can feel their subsonic moans
out there beyond the membrane.