Misdivision, a Nidget

When the sun’s this strong
In a simple room,
You have to mark it—

Even if the room
Is not yours, the light
Not for long, the world

Demanding something
Neither world nor you
Know how to express.

You read through some lines—
Who has captured this?
You read through some more.

The light is too strong
For one nonce mistake,
One anes, a negge.

Sealant

There’s a cavity, a pocket, a gap,
Where all the complicated lives go on,
Where the most grotesque and intricate live.

The village in the swamp, bacteria
Under the gum line, bats back of the cave,
The entangled roots of the forest floor—

Their openings, mostly, close smoothly
Over such exquisite situations,
A smile, a simple gate, a limestone wall.

You have to feel the caries are truer,
And don’t doubt what’s underneath is richer,
But there’s some significance to that wall,

Not only to what it covers over
Nor to the fact there is a covering
But smoothness with a secret isn’t smooth.

Savagely Optimistic

You’re not sure what it means.
You sort of wish you were.

It doesn’t mean wild-eyed
Confidence in the good.

It’s closer to stoic,
In a mirroring way.

You will allow yourself
No domestic excuse.

You’ll stay optimistic,
Even as it requires

A bit of savagery
To maintain. You’ll maintain

Since you know there are grounds
For this expectation,

That scary as it is
You’ll fumble through it

To something else scary
In yet another way.

Frida Painted Frida

When you’re in it,
What just happened,
Everything screams,

You have to choose
What’s best to do,
Insistently

Enough you split
Between despair
At improvement

And commitment
To improving.
From a distance,

Folks do better
Or get worse,
But doing so

Aren’t they doing
What they could do
And nothing else?

From the outside
It’s clear you did
What you did, but

From the inside,
You can fix it,
Can’t you? Fix it.

And You’re in the Branches

Music, basketry,
Choreography,
All evolve somewhat
Analogously,

But each with its own
Tree, its own branching.
Life, language, music,
These technologies

Changing alongside
Each other, not linked,
Not each following
Each, genes dragging words,

Words dragging music—
A forest of trees,
Different branches,
New worlds in the leaves.

Stopping the Starting Gun

Another shot at the starting gun—
If you get a steady bead on it
You might be able to hit it yet—

Between the cat naps that pass for sleep
In a hospital bed, and dawn
That can never be avoided

No matter how gray or delayed,
There is a narrow rifle slot
The starting gun is nuzzling through.

You need to get it then. You need
To hit it clean, knock the barrel
Sideways, don’t start the gun again.