VISITOR

Because I am my father's son, God
Sometimes drops by, usually late at night.
He never says much; time makes no sense
To Him, of course, since He is everywhen
He has promised to tell me if He finds
A road whose bend He cannot see around.

POSSIBILITIES

I will probably be away from this blog for a little bit for medical-type stuff. The six or eight of you should talk among yourselves for the next week or so, read the old posts, or put up arcane coments.
Also, rejoice! Rejoicing is important.

Li Po called on the Moon
And his shadow to drink
And to dance with him.
Who knows but if you call
They will answer you?

Sin and Death built a road
Where no road could be
Perhaps your morning bus
Travels that road.
Examine the other riders!

 

ALEX

Since he was born before 1900
And died well into his 90s, Alex,
My mother's friend, must surely have been
Almost the last of Franz Joseph's cavalrymen.
Old and sick, he drew endlessly
Flowers or boats or long moonlit roads
Or the man in the bed next to his.
The tall ghosts with whom he'd riden
Insistently clattered into his dreams
Demanding he join them. His hands
Pained him so he could barely hold a crayon;
I wondered how they could draw so well.
One morning he woke up in uniform
On horseback, holding reins in hands
No longer twisted, and knew that he had died.