For the Pedestrian In the Crosswalk Looking at His/Her Cellphone While Crossing

Generalizing like a foolhardy mystic
that’s where
the poem could go
couldn’t it?

Mediocrity jockeys
for some
kind of
modest stimulus.

what do you say what do you do what do you want to say or do?

there’s a stairwell
with doors closed

A sky, pigeon blue
(currently under investigation)
laughs–

Social Responsibility
(currently under investigation)
skips a rock down the road–

Are you unplugged and
away from
the screen

the screens, their shabu-shabu?

The Trees are Women and as Women

The trees are women and as women
they wait and grow in patience,

hands lightly clasped, dressed in
ancient dress, forbearing, having

come here from the distant past—
bare of foot and without malice,

without pretense of speech I go
to them for comfort, to lay beneath

their solemn breath, their gentle
unsmiling goodness, to turn in my

ways, to feel their bare ankles and
know that living a life is a shared

experience not always spoken or
human

Map Series: Relation of Antarctica to the Surrounding Contintents

arrows indicate prevailing winds, arrows
over water, skirting and skimming, at liberty,
it seems, to make progress despite unseen

depths, degrees and political designations—

returning, it seems, by night or under
cloudcover or while you while away
in errand-run or task mismanagement

or personal worriment–inevitable arrows

knowing no center but feeling the push,
following the open, the opening, the unheard
announcement of safety in chance, safety

without center, an uncentered mooring,

inaccessible if studied or plotted or predicted–
this peninsula, this strait, this sound
claimed by France or Australia or Britain or

America—to sail the controversial industry

of slaughter, evangelizing open water
with encirclement administered
in scientific disregard–what now,

rookeries of first sea, first winter,
first whirl
of northward blowing winds?

she wiped away some dirt and took a bite

set out by day, set out with water
full to the lip, you could say, the

old metal oil pan awaits visits
of finch, chickadee and an occasional

cat–but what, overnight, drains it so–
for three mornings in a row, a slight

swirl of ice left, a signature of what’s
unlappable, as if the local coyotes or

fox have found this watering to their
taste on their nightly rounds–there’s

a need to nail this down, solve the
ghost, frame a picture of what happens

when happening goes unseen, un-
noticed–right now clouds churn sun-

rise grays and creams into beehives
of lightly living above the earth,

there’s so much give and take it
becomes and is becoming–the

unlappable, unstoppable overwintering
(now that Winter drags her finger

down your back) as small trees
watch what’s dragged from the woods

unplug this will you for there’s time

unplug this will you for there’s time
yet and such small faces working
with delight that what makes this
time a time of delight has nothing
to do with the current level of this
or the going rate of that—inebriate
of voltage, i’m dilly-dallying amidst
screens of forecast or frenzy—

do we hand over our better selves
for entertainment and if entertained

what opens in us, for shouldn’t we
open—the pigeon at the bus stop
did what most pigeons do on such
a day, turned each little something
over, dibbled with each dabble,
poked in earnest interest and in
that got something once or twice—
what gleaning grows honest?