the first time i heard
segovia
was on the radio
driving through maryland late at night in a january storm switching from snow to ice with each hill
and curve in the road
a treacherous journey
but that soft guitar in deft hands seemed to offer guidance
i felt as if the car were holding still
in order to listen to him
and the world around us was the thing in motion
Tag: writing
Ghost
i want to be
able to say ‘ghost’ in
every language
even in
the forgotten ones
we no longer have
a record of
even
in the ones we
haven’t made yet
even
in silence
Built Sunk
this will be a ruin
because everywhere will be
so it already is
ropes rot away
before they are made
all metal is rust
these boats
were built sunk
i recall
anticipating seeing
the most insignificant
little thing
disappearing forever
and from that I won’t
recover
On One Side of a Limit
The ocean
doesn’t smell salty at all
Fishing poles at the end
of the pier—
cat whiskers
I wonder how far out
the horizon line is
on the water
Such calm waves
as if they’re running out of
what makes them
The museum is there
to support the shop
The sound of any particular raindrop
is beyond your ability
You can’t pick one out
from the sound of rain
You are on one side of a limit
and aware of
the other side
The Visit
This Place of Words
I bring my book to her and read aloud. Like Rilke, she tells me not to be afraid to look deeply into everything, not even pain. I can tell her—my friend—that I want to belong, that it hurts to live always on the outside. She tells me there are many ways to belong in this world, and that it is my work to discover where I belong.
At night, when everyone is silent and everything is still, I lie in the darkness of my windowless room, the place where they exile me from the community of their heart, and search the unmoving blackness to see if I can find my way home. I tell myself stories, write poems, record my dreams. In my journal I write: I belong in this place of words. This is my home. This dark, bone-black inner cave where I am making a world for myself.