Tap

Eyes lie, skin lies,
Touch lies, taste lies,
But it’s rare when
They lie the same

Or all at once.
We’ve learned to trust
What we’ve sensed more
Ways than one. Truth,

Most of the time,
Is just that trust.
This serves us well
But not with words.

Words own no sense.
They can’t self check.
Their lies float free.
Our lies trust us.

Green Stick

A child at ten is still
A bit of a stem cell—
You can tell what you’ve got,

More or less, but not yet
What sorts of roles will be
Played—it’s half here and all

Out of your hands by now.
The world and the child will
Make up a mind, the way

The world and you are still
Merged in a mind, which you
Think of as yours but know

Is more the world’s. The child’s
Mind, world, roles, fuse as lives
All do, the way huge oaks

Sprawled in hay fields with cows
Aren’t scarred, groomed town park oaks,
Nor roofs like oaks in woods.

We’ll Fill a Pit As Well

As waste, as old chairs,
As mold on tossed fruit,
As hard shells of oil,
Old tires, tins, rags, dreck.
Do let us go there,

Let us be hard pressed,
Made blocks of dried flesh,
Packed skulls, tanned hides, clay.
Squeeze the oils from us
If you must, but save

The hair, scraps, and bulk
Of what once was us
At the time of death.
Please don’t churn us up
And send our poor flecks

Back through the great whirl
Of days, nights, and lives,
Of teeth, wants, and lusts,
Of what we once ate,
Of what must eat us.

A dried corpse, a thin
Line in a stone slope,
A thing that is done—
Give us that peace, that
Wreck. Don’t bring us back.