Friday, November 25, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Tap the key with the little finger
and it takes you back
though not like a fountain of youth,
not like a time machine,
not even like memory.
At the edge of your previous thought
the cursor insists that going forward
is only marginally related
to going back.
The person you fell in love with
before learning what love was,
the last words you spoke to your father --
it’s all related, the line above
necessary to get you to the place
where you wait for the next one.
But not with her,
not with your father,
not with the idea you had any idea
of where you would end up.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Communal to a fault,
starlings flock to the same updraft,
swoon like a black silk scarf
until the impression collectively shifts,
dives suddenly toward the earth,
that table where untangling what one bird
wants from what the murmuration requires
is weighed, pushed back up into the sky,
still dark with ten thousand other birds