Coming into Focus

At first, when the facts are few,
The truth seems more important.
The inconsolable mind
Squints in the glare like the lens
Of a flummoxed camera,
Saturated in beauty,
Uncomfortably confused,

But for love that can ignore
Distractions, blurred horizons,
The foreground resolves itself--
Junipers, wine, a picnic,
A sly, tender book of verse,
The face of the beloved,
Chiaroscuro, in bliss.

Advaita

I am that
Which, when I
Have to be

That I can
Be that, but
Just barely,

Only and
Always, by
Law, barely.

Of Power Which Holds It Hostage

You can't compose yourself
Fast enough to stay ahead
Of your decomposition.

Can you be okay with that?
Because, if you can't, it doesn't
Really matter, save to you.

What can being well-composed
Do for a cliff-face, a good cause,
The compounding sorrows of long life?

Everything, you suppose. You want
To pull yourself together, just tightly
Enough to remember what you chose.

The Past

All that ever could be
Could be lost

And all that ever is
Is all that ever is lost

But all that ever was lost
Was always lost

Always will be
Always was

Not and
Not lost

The Music of Our Spheres

Strategy, strategy, strategy,
We all rehearse our strategies,
Imagine our winning strategies--
If this, this, and this other thing,

Then this (or that!) will surely work.
Congratulations go to coincidences,
The chalice of causation is awarded
To the most complicated arabesques

Of indecipherable correlations,
When there is no causation at all,
Not here, not there, not anywhere,
And no grounds for our explanations,

Our fictions of decisions, our myths
Of choice--just strategy, strategy,
Strategy, game of games, oh music
Play us to our last vibrating string.

The Pond

The water runs clearest
Where it enters the pond
Eddies the algae
Always choking for breath
At the bottom of things.
Dulled, the water forgets
Where it came from, lets mud

Capture facts for later,
Responds best to the sun,
Now the descent is done,
Evaporates at ease,
Dissipating, musing,
Dreaming, obfuscating,
Swimming with hungry things.

Nunc Stans

Metaphysical therapists crowd my desk,
Setting me in front of their mirroring texts
Like barbers, ballet teachers, funhouse impresarios.

They urge me to lift my sights, to work
Harder, to use their multiple reflections
To guide the rehabilitation of my career mind.

Blogs quote poems, poems photographs,
And professors meditate on the fine arts
Of book reviews, abstract painting,

Spring walks, anguished, heartfelt
Politics, classroom discussions,
Time, green, goodness, grants,

Until I can hardly tell in their swarm
Of words, which are their instructions,
Which are just shoptalk over my head.

They're here to help me. They're paid
And well-trained. I mimic them, flailingly,
Recovering slowly. My head hurts. Now stand.