this is the way we send messages
i place the stones one by one
upon the dusk-soaked sands
to check at dawn for each small change
for this is how we talk, the Sea and i
i place the stones one by one
upon the dusk-soaked sands
to check at dawn for each small change
for this is how we talk, the Sea and i
i.
The silver cord, the golden bowl, the long home. The cord slips, the bowl cracks, the long home.
ii.
The silver chord, the scratched CD that plays a snatch of song again, again. Where will death’s foreplay scratch me, scratch me?
iii.
On what will I fix, what neuronal lifeline, my golden bowl at sea?
Is there a version of my life in which Mary is the martyr
And is there a version of your life in which I traffic in holies
Which direction of existence is the road out of Jerusalem
Grant Hackett
Falling off the Mountain, January 16th and 18th
Dawn comes, pink and gray as a 1950s shirt. The full moon hangs in the west, no longer blue. I hang the new calendar on the kitchen wall.
Everything’s unwrapped, and there’s one present no one can remember buying. Its cheap plastic suddenly acquires an aura of wonder.
Bald dome and wrinklebrow
He makes himself known,
And limply by candlefrown
Makes his way home.
My somewhat lighthearted approach to the haiku master.
The Cold Moon sets behind the bare-limbed ash. She takes her time. I shake my restless foot.
Sometimes suicide is slow. A friend tries, fails; tries, fails. But the body holds our secrets and never forgets.
One day, years later, the body holds a bright, growing ball and says, “See? Look what I have done for you.”
