The Self on Loan

It takes the self.

It does not have

A card. It is

Not sleep or death.

It does not sign

For self. It takes,

And then, it brings

It back, like that.

Flesh does strange things

While self is gone.

Part of the self

Might have been left

To feel scared, trapped,

Lost in the show.

The rest, once back,

Asks, What was that?

Haints, Imps, Wights

Are all we are,

The not-quite born

And not-quite dead

Thoughts of your lives—

Where are we now

If not as you

And in your house,

Your house of you,

The creaks in chests,

Moans heard in bed,

A howl out back,

Bangs from the shed—

You don’t name us—

We name names, us.

The clash ga’ed round.

We’ve left the ground.

Here Corn Is God

It was true then,
And it’s true now,
If you read well—
Corn—grain—means food,

And what life forms
Do not hang from
The god of food?
Waste is a risk

And can build up,
But food comes first.
Air is food. Light
Is food. What burns

Or can be burned
Is food. The rest
Of all our gods
Are wind and guts.

Past Not Yet Past

If there are waves out there
That have no points, are bare,

Not a quant in the joint—
As there are, if Bohm’s right,

And may be, if he’s wrong—
Then why not think of them

As the past not yet past,
As what lies past our ends,

As the true saints, true gods,
True signs our signs dream of?

Think of it! Waves on waves,
Each with no point to it,

No light in it, no wet,
No sign—the sea, the loom

Of all our lives and dreams,
Null set, but with a dance

To it—no edge, no knots,
One warp and weft all waves—

On which we’re stretched to lie
Down all our lived, long days.

Sound and Light Show

Bright moon and fierce winds
On old snow. Pine cones

Land like stones. The road
Lies bare. Deer can’t graze

Up here. On the cliffs,
The light makes more snow,

And each thing that stands
Gives voice to more roars.