I left my apartment windows open
 — I am wild that way —
and the rainstorm ruined the place
 to teach me a lesson.
I caulked the cracks in the plaster
 and found patches from before.
I repainted the walls
 and noticed the hasty paint job;
 the corner’s curves giggled
  as I lay down the painter’s tape;
 my soul felt the healing
  of wet, tender bristles
  on the wood’s latex skin
  over cracks, bulges, bumps, and bends.
This place was alive
 with getting put together
 and falling apart again.
I beheld its incurable quaintness
 and brutal, undeniable charm.
Forlorn, I came to understand
 I would only add my own mistakes.
I lay in bed;
 the walls were mine.
The apartment
 an awning of wilderness.

Dry Terms

There is something in spontaneous being
 that defies analysis.

That analysis, set apart from spontaneous being,
 searches for cheating rules
 when, without rules, being one’s self
  is not the rule, but simply the way.

One sells one’s self short
 attempting to package one’s self
 into something that fits
 when fitting is supposed to be the substance.

The broad expanse of the self,
 the contemporality of the self
 is that most precious elixir of the self
 we fain would capture if we could
  without denying its essence.


So startled to see
the full tender flesh
of the flowers;
proud colors
present themselves
before the overcast sky
faithfully to the sun.
these fall days;
about to tumble…
 the wind wisps about me.
I see a tree struck
 by lightening;
a cloven branch clings to the trunk, 
its leaves at my feet, curling with burning crimson.
I gaze up and blink
at the tree’s green leaves.


Though it’s getting late in the day,
 shall I skip over to the lake?
My years do not count
 like those of a child.
I go to the lake, overjoyed
 to see the sun has not set.
The sunlight dances completely
 from one side to the other;
 the entire breadth is shimmering:
 the glory of the dancing sunrays on the water.
That is what these fall days provide:
 an extended lifespan
 and, then, to finally see
 the naked tree
 revealed in the light.


I saw a beautiful floating thing
 rock–leaf–floaty, hovering
 just beneath the surface of the pond.
My heart gazed;
 my romance
 always on
 “It is perhaps a piece of trash;
  don’t be open.”
I gazed
 sunken rock, gold leaf, floating submerged
Then I saw it:
 a turtle’s head poking out of the water
 breathing with the whole pond,
 breathing my breath,
 so cute and innocent
 at once my love was explained.
One turtle in the whole pond
 breathing in air for the whole pond,
 poking its head out to connect
 the underneath with the forest.
Floating in earnest little grace
 and so picturesque
I grabbed and shook my phone.
  “You are going to miss him.
   He will go should you take
    his picture.”
I took it.
 He was not in it,
  just a pond and woods
   so picturesque if there would
    be a little turtle in the middle of it.
I gazed
 and saw the turtle unchanged
 and as I delighted
  he ducked his head down;
 a ring emanated over the pond
 and a little bloop where his head had been
 — gone.
I looked back at the picture.
 He was there; his head
 one little speck.
 The sublime floating gold
 hidden by the pond’s reflection
  of the sky.

I talked with some people there;
 they had seen the turtle, too.