Cliffhanger

The glaciers that crept like snakes are gone
Or going, seemingly retreating,
But retreating’s not how glaciers go.

The serpents of ice are ascending,
Evaporating back into clouds
To add to your floods and disasters.

The glaciers have turned into angels—
How about that for a metaphor?
And like all of your angels, they’ll fall,

But are you really sure they’re the worst
You have to worry about looming
Over you? Have you forgotten bombs?

Have you forgotten how many bombs
You have in pocket and what they’d do
If they rose up like angels and fell?

The snakes will come crawling back again,
Most likely, far future worms of ice—
Their eyes may really be glowing then.

Or Can’t Be Found at All

Every day he heads back to the garden.
It’s not his garden, but no one minds him.

He’s not actually gardening at all.
He doesn’t weed. He likes the weeds too much.

He’s poaching, a little bit. Borrowing
In hopes he’ll borrow something worth stealing.

What have we here today? Methodical,
Most of the time, he wanders row by row.

He doesn’t really know what he’s hunting.
If he knew, if he found it, he’d take it

And keep it and leave the garden alone.
But so far, no. He’s still stalking the rows.

It would be funny if he’s missing it,
What can only be found in this garden.

Other Choristers

Call them all small gods,
All of the living
And the not living,

Existing or not,
Anything you can
Call by name. Why not?

Keep them multiple.
Don’t let them collapse
Into one spirit,

One pantheism,
That circular track
Back past where you passed.

Think of so many
Small gods all singing,
No more fantasy

Than any other.
Chop divinity
Into little names,

Words for other words,
A cosmic chorus
Of tiny insects,

Smaller than insects,
Not nearly so real,
Just singing, singing.

Of Course

All the beauty you ever wanted
Remains outside your door. It’s just that
You’re not comfortable anymore.

Living with illness and following
What humans get up to in this world,
You’re aching and chastened and struggling

To find grace in beauty anymore.
But it’s out there, of course. It’s never
Meant just for you, but it stays, of course.

Off You Go

Stepping from waking into dreams
Is like stepping into a boat.

What was apparently still land
Underfoot is now a swaying

As you pull away from the dock,
And everything is in motion

And watery and you can see
There’s a movement underneath things

But it’s dim and you don’t really
Want to fall in. Then you fall in.