5. Just before Nothing Happens

my view is horizon without end | even at night

the sound of air | we wait or we wander

either/or | the small balancings life affords us

maybe health | maybe love | maybe people

to keep long enough to hold | briefly enough to

cherish | air is but a thinner form of water

the sky presses down | flattening everything

a man sleeping on a bench | the church steeple

the pampered lawn just turned green | gulls

in the moment of your finger | tapped | upon

your nose | what else happens? | does a

butterfly flutter to the ground? | a baby cry?

does loonsong swirl up off the surface of a

lake you no longer ever see? | we live in

interminabilities | and other impossibilities

how many teeth are in your mouth? | when

did you last remember that day? | who told

you? | could you sleep that night? | did

excitement keep you away? | did dread

encumber your dreams? | do you even know?

 

there rests a baby in the penumbra of | my

life | one with ounded cheeks | big smiles

a warbling laugh | still trapped on his back

he watches | for he does not know to wait

his aim is good | his eyes are dark | and he

has ambition | for an infant | he knows he

should turn over | so he tries and fails

his familiars are two cats | that wander

around him | and watch | cautiously

at the big little boy who | flails without

who flails within | babies are the most

perfect form of human | because we

want them to be | unmarred, unmanned

they resemble unalloyed joy | even if

crying | because crying is a demand for

life | protection | food | comfort | an

infant is hope | possibility | an extension

to life | so he eats and he grows | and

he has no dreams beyond existence | listen

that is the sound of him | breathing

 

where in bone and broken blood | does

does a body go? | who has the strength

to live? | I am still | relearning how to

write a poem | which I do by wandering

off | this is a poem about you | this is

a poem about this night | on the 28^th

floor | this is a poem about itself | just

the accumulation of a life | and stories

heard | lifted into place with | supreme

effort | we | poets | accept that life

is just the road to death | so we cannot

wait | for it | we must scurry | and

assemble all the pieces we can | to put

this contraption together | we want you

to have this small accompaniment | to

use as you will | it provides no balm

it suggests no obligation | it will just

sit with you for a while | listen to your

stories | laugh when expected | give

you enough time | to rest and to wait