Let/Go

In the West we take shapes for granted—
probably the mountains explain it.

I take words for granted
and only remember in the absence of
sermons or sunshine or
time to smoke between
trials and time-clocks

But I steal rhythm every day from songs
from words
from phrases and questions
and train-tracks and the past—
the past that we all want to believe

But it wasn’t and we know it

. . .

The problem is no one cares
anymore about words.

Now that's a ridiculous thing to say

Feels like it, though, and
sometimes can't imagine
anyone but 87 elderly
gathering to spit smoke
on poetry

But why should they, anyway?
Every day,
in the middle of every afternoon,

there is
no getting around the fact
that we've lost it
and have no reliable guarantee
that we'll find it

I've mine and you've yours
and an occasional
stranger with a wink reminds a man
what he promised to do

Every day, twenty minutes
before sundown, my eyes
fix upon western peaks
to make sure
I am who I say
I was going to be

But it shouldn't surprise you
that I'm not as certain
as the stone is to sink
as I to ascend, to rise
for the sake of
tasting smoother air—
if that's what it is


Have you ever seen
pastry crumbs sink down
into coffee?
Me neither.
But I know they're down there.
That's change:
I see nothing of it,
but it doesn't taste
like it did before.