Field Experiments

They started in a clearing.
They carved a trench together,
And they brought the sacred books

From competing traditions,
And they set them in the trench
With no special privilege

For one over another.
Then, they climbed out of the trench
And took a composed picture.

From the canopy’s height,
They took another picture.
Then from a helicopter,

Then from a passenger jet.
After that, stock photos served
From overhead satellites.

Meanwhile, digging underground,
Deeper pictures, looking up,
Until there was no lower

And no higher to attain,
And any further shifting
Of perspective on the texts

Had to be speculative.
The truth of the universe
Patiently stayed in the trench.

How to Write a Poem Yourself

The kid considered toy blocks
With no sense of their purpose
In prior generations.

Some were identical,
Except for different scuff marks.
The grown-ups at the table

Were discussing other things.
The blocks were good for the kid—
Tactile, requiring input,

Imagination, building
Hand-eye coordination.
At the table, the adults

Discussed the end of the world
With no sense of their purpose.

Put in the Reps, You’ll Get to Meaning

It’s not immediately threatening,
The short first string of signs and suggestions—
Observations little like instructions—

The equipment in the exercise room
Is colorful and neatly put away.
You can see that, can’t you? See the sunlight
On the scuffed floor and and the workout machines?

Now, what is it trying to say to you,
What is it trying to get you to see?
This is where it starts to get scarier.
You’re being bullied to find the meaning.

That’s trickery. This point didn’t arrive
With its sunny loneliness and meaning.
Check your pockets. You did it! That’s meaning.

The World’s at the End

These little rooms really should
Have their entrances reversed,
Or at least made optional.

Sometimes, you should meander
First around what’s finished last.
The world took a while to build,

Miniature as it was.
Start out where it has a sense
Of being already whole,

A kind of a place at least,
A distinct occupation.
This was where the first line meant

To arrive—at a sunny
Table gathering people
Around a family meal.

See? Now you can start from here,
Shared dishes and shared complaints
About the take-out Tex-Mex.

Life with a Light Touch

Not so much as an obvious
Shift in the light. It’s so quiet,
It’s hard to believe this is part

Of life. Small noises, small rumbles,
The occasional drifting stink,
Let the body experience

The phenomenological
Sensorium that says, yes, life.
An hour ago, paramedics

Gathered up one breathing body
On a gurney and rolled it out
To their candy apple red truck,

But even they didn’t say much.
You waved at the world, Keep in touch.

Interpretive Dance

If you read a lot about writers,
You’ll discover a mental habit
Of thinking as if you were writing,

Observantly, about a writer’s
Habits when writing about writers.
You’ll figuratively kick yourself.

No one is out there, now, wondering
What you have to say around midnight
About this or that other writer,

Although, given you have existed,
There must be many others like you,
Writers unbeknownst to each other

Who are sitting up late nights to wonder
About the small thoughts of great writers.