{The Music of the Night}

as his hands
maneuver notes on the guitar, i let
my eyes blur.
the fire a glowing
just on the edge
of their forms‑folded backs,
open arms‑
surrounding me.
shaking slightly, my ribs
i relish in this


{16 September 2016}

these shining people‐
inventions of moonlight,
moondance, mist,
mornings, atoms,

colorful blankets
spread about their shoulders
like the wings of
a prehistoric moth
just risen from its cocoon
‐limp, new,
full of possibility.

upturned, open faces
drinking the steam
of the coffee field
covered in an
all-consuming light.

{The Arboretum}

We had news yesterday — the arboretum
charges 50 shillings to enter. To walk
among the dusty trees and the old bushes,
you must pay the woman
at the gate 50 shillings.

On the edge of the road, between the
river and the sidewalk, a tin hut is
built for people with jikus, with vats of oil,
with pots of milk, tea leaves, sugar.
They sell their sustenance to passers.

Mary Oliver once said, “Loving the earth, seeing what has been done to it,
I grow sharp, I grow cold.”

I wonder how one must treat an Earth they love, and
how one must stay soft.

My father and I ran into the arboretum,
paying nothing this morning, it being too early
for the woman at the gate with her clipboard.
We ran behind and around small gatherings of
schoolboys, their uniforms green and tired, their eyes
already awake, eager for the quiet of the trees and
the darkness that still rests in the arboretum.

How must one be thankful for the woman at the gate,
payed who knows how much to feed her family?
How must one have grace on the schoolboys who do not have
50 shillings to spare on muffled bird calls and big trees?
How must I, wealthy as I am, run in the forest
for free?

{19 September 2016}

The man steers their red volvo with bony wrists:
they are tan, wide, delicate and strong.
The woman in the passenger seat is talking, smiling slightly.
I imagine that the woman loves his wrists:
she loves the way they make dinner, hold their
daughter, steer the car.
She imagines that when they are old, their
daughter grown, their hair thinner, their
movements smaller, their car slower,
his wrists will still be his wrists.
They will be the same ones that held her
hand for the first time and every time.
Their daughter’s son will have the same skinny
wrists. She imagines that those wrists will
always be the same. She still believes they
will be the same when, in the next
moment, the red volvo’s bumper
disappears into the bumper of the
bright green lorry, and everything changes.

{Living Like The Trees}

the trees
bend as if
they have
their long
lives for this
one moment

and yet
they do not
have a

the plasticity
of their
makes them
unable to
they agree

oh how I
wish I could
live like
a tree

bending to
my callings
as if
I had a