Phases
He found himself a box
a small, undistinguished box
to put himself into.
Not all of him, a part
unlamented by him, the part
most recently over
and ready to be forgotten.
Not forever - he knew
that was not possible - he knew
though it would try its best
not to fidget, to keep still,
not try to turn over, still,
it could not rest
forever, it would have to knock
at one side or another, knock
hard at times, just tap
at other times to recall him
to its time, pinpoint him
to its place on his map
for a moment or two, a year or so.
*
When he first laid it in the box
on top of the older parts in his box
he watched it settle in
without a sigh, a shrug, a lock
he closed the box without a lock
a sigh, a shrug, a smile.
SKETCHBOOK, April-2008
Someone Else's World
There's a time of will, of stout-hearted sensibility
when all may not be right with the world
but it is your world, with all its back-breakers,
its griefs, its bumps in the night ...
it is your world, where stumblings or spectres,
disturbances or despair are dare-able,
when you can settle in to work or cry or fight,
when to shatter the black knight
or be shattered
is real.
And then, there's this: tremors
under your feet, shaking the coffee cup
you've raised to your mouth; tremors,
like the aftershocks of an earthquake,
every few days, or hours. Nothing
catastrophic or unexpected, just tremors,
from the rupture in someone else's world,
rumbling through yours.
HAMMERS - 1998
