Mark My Words and Scratch the Dirt

A saying is a tool, a gate,
Something to redirect the flow,
Something with which to irrigate

The part of the conversation
You want to get the benefit
Of a more sustained attention—

And sometimes you use the tool well,
And sometimes it’s decorative,
Something that you pull out to tell

An interlocutor, look here,
What a satisfying saying
This is, well made, handsome to hear,

Pithy, multipurpose, but curt.
You mark my words and scratch the dirt.

Reminiscence

Go seek out data sets of zero
With no equations in them.
Go scrutinize graphs of emptiness,
No curves, confessing nothing.

No, this is no kind of discipline,
No way to enlightenment,
Just a reminder heavenly hosts
Camp around an empty tent

Concealing holy nonexistence,
Beginning and end of covenants.

Old Age Aching Fever

Will this body ever
Feel like summer weather
Again, ever savor

Cool snacks in fresh water,
Green apple-slice wafers,
Chilled white grapes in a pond,

Like nothing could go wrong
While tickled by wavelets,
Toes nibbled by small fish,

The sun on the shoulders,
Skin bare in the water,
The outer and inner

Contented together,
Got as good as given,
Pleasure healthy again?