Fine Tales of That Which Was Not Found

A text can be as full
Of lost dreams as a tomb,

But words, like tombs, can be
Bare stones. The thieves were here.

Or were there thieves? Was this
A grave in the first place?

Blocks of words, blocks of stone,
May look bare, lost or not.

We are the thieves. We want
Loot, gold, hoards from a world

Like ours but lost to us,
One we know we can’t know.

Some texts are rich with what
Would bring that world to life,

At least in our mind’s eyes.
Those masks! Those robes! Those rings!

Lies. The plain stones, the floor
Cut with weeds—they can speak.

The drab phrase, the dull line,
The trite rhyme. They don’t fail.

They’re bland to us. We want
The sense of a felt world

We’ve robbed their texts to reach.
If it’s not here, we’ll leave,

Call them cursed. But they speak.
They do sing. Each to each.

The Quick Aren’t as Long-Lived as the Dead

It’s all change. They’re all changed.
Each time and each place has grown

Strange, will go strange, and yet
In some ways each now stays the same,

And my thoughts on this head have
Not changed, not much changed.

On my way up the back slopes to fall,
I saw a barred hawk, paused my car

To let a mule deer fawn, left on its own,
Cross a dirt road, flushed a big ram

From the brush oak, watched pink turn gold,
All the things that live, grow, and let go

But aren’t the same as the things in these
Names, names that are ghosts, slow to go.

Hope and the Lack

I’m proud to say, I’ve not worked well—
Too proud, I’d say, but not too proud

To say it. You know you’ve been judged
By those who lack the skill to judge

What it is you do, but you wish
They would take a fresh stab at it,

Since you can’t think of who else would.
As for me and my house, we will

Not serve well to be judged at all.
Oh well. A breeze walks through the door

In hopes of just a bit of shade.
Its whoosh mutes the thoughts of the jays.