It’s hard to catch the vast world’s tune;
 it goes on so long:
 it’s surprising when it begins to repeat
 to know it well enough to like it.
 Then, there’s the instrument I’m stuck with,
 embarrassing for its narrow applicability.
 Oh, well; here goes —
 and I blow or strike or strum or sing
 and accentuate the melody
  or compensate with harmony
  or engage in counterpoint
  or remain silent, waiting for a dramatic
       crash of symbols or discharge of canon
 and, at some point, appropriately — artfully
 add to life’s symphony.

Say it. Say it:
it’s unfair that they sing while you have no song.
No. Sing it. Sing it!

What would I do
if my blues weren’t beautiful?

With every chisel, freedom.
Within my text, a poem.

The dance in us
celebrates persistent beings
who perform forms
we love.

You’re going to make a father out of me:
first snake I’ve held;
first baby I’ve cared for.
I place my hand into your cage;
 you sniff and avoid
 when it’s obvious to me you should glide right on.
Only after both of my hands have lain on either side of you
 and you’ve tucked yourself into a ball,
 head resting on curls, do I realize
 I must pick you up directly.

You don’t snap when I pinch;
then it’s hand over hand over hand:
non–stop.

On the table, in the sun,
you stretch out into a new world.
You don’t know and there’s no way for me to tell you:
it’s small.
Just one big circle as far as the eye can see:
only, snakes are blind.

You’re so young; you need this experience
to learn to move, to understand your body.
You head straight for the edge;
it’s instinctual or inevitable.
And there’s my hand.
It’s such a long drop; I don’t want you bruised or dead.
So, here’s my hand.
And you comprehend.
And, though it’s not the best new place to go,
 perhaps it’s the only place you know.

And, back on the table you go
and straight to the edge.
I blame the small circle you’re in;
and, a hand I extend.
And you still search for ground.
I pull up a chair, in case you want to leave.
Do you dare? You sense something underneath;
though it be further than you’re long,
you hover down till — plump — you fall
belly to the sun.
You twine between the slats
till, like water, you find that sinking leg
and dive down — despite its sheer plastic,
crimp on it with your pinky–full stomach
until — plop — again.

Back to the circle and its edge you go.
This time, no hands, though.
We are both learning about falling here.
Now, I see you can smell the ground — or its absence —
and I let you dip
as far off the edge as you dare;
head and belly drip
with just your scales left to grip
and that fine sense of gravity,
refined from your last fall,
saves you
or perhaps this is normal activity
with which I’ve just been meddling?
Now, you gracefully circle and dip
along the edge without fear to slip;
just desperate for some place wherewith to get
down.

I guess I’ve learned my lesson, now,
knowing, as I take you in my hand,
we needn’t go hand over hand over hand.
And I need not worry about your leaning on me
while upon my hand you circle ’round.
to curl into a peaceful perch —
until you sniff deeper ground.

The week between
 heating and air–conditioning
when frogs whir and birds sing

Heaven might be found on a mountaintop;
we could be lost in the desert flats for all I care.
As long as the vehicle is cared for,
 we still have someplace to go.

I ate honey Os
until a voice bade me
attend to something.
I returned
to deliciously soggy Os;

I wait
for such soggy deliciousness
to recur.

Exposed to the numinous
 the hero ventures forth
 steeped in life
to return a warrior
 with the pearl
 exposed to the numinous