gray and decidedly ending
he yells at the goalpost by the place where
the standing room is.
he’s still alive and thankful for the net.
things are fallen, there on the grass.
he wonders if there is a club, like a knitting group, or a book club, where he can
concede that it doesn’t matter if he wins or ties.
it’s a bit broken at this point, and hey, there’s the ball coming right at
nothing. all he see’s is nothing.
his best friend died playing frisbee when he was 16.
it was nothing like this is. this game has spectators, and it seems like it will
never be over.
mariners? it wasn’t something he thought about.
over by the hill
with the shining death and
someone was walking their dogs a few years back
and heard the motion, the
there, where the concrete is broken, and
there, where he smoked when he was younger.
a ship sailing outward, where something calls back.
who, the animal
who, the animal of the inner wells and workings of that
cabin sam had built years ago, somewhere in wyoming
where there is endless imagination to consider when the
days are longing and the animals are walking through
the front yard. who wanders over to him and wonders
why do we do these things? impaled on the kindling of
life, how do we get past start? he looks down, held
by who, and sees the bottom of the well, reflecting the top
of the sky and thinks, it’s all here isn’t it? the things we
will accomplish, the things we will leave to others.
the letter, the hand, the pear
the hand that is
standing alone tonight,
and space that stands: elsewhere.
ufo’s reported again, and that
hand is reaching, hoping.
my mother spent a lot of time
dreaming about space.
“i robot” peered from the bookcase, and
she wrote a letter to save star trek.
reaching. reading her books,
drinking tea and eating a pear.
our own private little seas
we are endlessly battling with these negative
emotions that confront us.
by endless paths through mountains and
by endless paths through oceans and as we
set sail in our private little seas we wonder
often, if there is something to be learned
what is it, and why did we really try and
figure that out anyway, if it mattered then
wouldn’t it be born into us, the
way a ship yields to storm, the
way our bodies fall when
ways we yearn, endlessly.