sea breeze

my spirit
which I have never seen
and that I love above all

things
and is insubstantial
and indestructible
that animated me as

a child
blows through these lines
like a sea breeze
on the night I first saw you
and felt like a man both

invincible
and riven through

unfolding

looking up between cedars
I find my meridian

as if these were last days
unfolding

days granted 
days given

interest

it is easy to count grains

in a store
consider balances and deficits

much harder to ignore
misfortune

pretend that nothing’s happened

irregardless
morning sun on the garage door

finds a dance of rust flakes
and so much more

of interest

order of service

often there is only me here

now
and one place mat
where there used to be several

but birds still sing in the
high hedgerow

at dusk
when service is over

breath 

blank like the stars are blank
and the leaf
and all the leaves
and the carpet
and the ceiling
nothing brings relief
when not even love has meaning

only breath
only breathing

obtained by digging

experience flashes over us
like the morning shower

the more intense it is
the more difficult to grasp

for one whole second
let alone an hour

if I could only hold a moment
from that wellspring of joyous giving

but all I have are these
dull memories

like casts and molds
no longer living

so long ago it seems
intangible as dream

but for these cold fossil forms
obtained by digging

morning coffee

things fall apart
cannot be repaired

for that reason
we sometimes despair

a path leads up the field
towards the ridge

then peters out

they should put an archive
of broken things up there

where uncertainty
meets intangible air

at first light

I could photograph them
put them in a book

a resource for all the world
it would only take a moment

to flick through
we are disposable

even the things
I could not photograph

belong up there
past care

thick
with morning coffee

yellow book

a yellow book
on a white shelf
in morning sun

I open it
and read from it
when everyone has gone

don’t worry
rejoice
in what you have begun

yellow book

white shelf

morning sun

no book

I imagine the room will be small
with pale blue walls
and a neat bed
with a thin coverlet
perhaps a curtained window
overlooking a communal garden
like the one we had
at the flats you never came to

there will be a bedside table
but no books
except for the one you leave behind
after your visit
with the black covers
alongside that copy of The Racing Post
the cleaner was reading

I’d send it back to you
if you hadn’t gone on ahead
I only back certainties now
want no book at all

peripherals

I’ve noticed that when I cross the road nowadays
the element of chance involved
is greater than it used to be
such is the state of my peripheral vision

it’s really quite exciting

that and making a pretty girl laugh
are probably the most an old man can hope for