Thursday, May 24, 2007



At the window
frozen with birdlust -
the old tomcat.

Hieroglyphs above
scratched on desert cliffs,
sneaker prints below.

First light -
wood duck on the pond
gone mad with flapping.

Sudden rain -
stuck in the car

Through the trees
sun casting fish shadows
on the creek bottom.



Finally, brethren,
whatsoever things are true,
whatsoever things are honest,
whatsoever things are just,
whatsoever things are pure,
whatsoever things are lovely,
whatsoever things are of good report;
if there be any virtue,
and if there be any praise,
think on these things.

Philippians 4:8

Wednesday, May 2, 2007



Some beetle trilling
its midnight utterance.

Voice of the scarabee,
working survivor ...

I recall how each year
returning from voyages, flights
over sundown snowpeaks,
cities crouched over darkening lakes,
hamlets of wood and smoke,
I find
-----the same blind face upturned to the light
-----and singing
-----the one song,

-----the same weed managing
-----its brood of minute stars
-----in the cracked flagstone.

--Denise Levertov

To the Reader

As you read, a white bear leisurely
pees, dyeing the snow

and as you read, many gods
lie among lianas: eyes of obsidian
are watching the generations of leaves,

and as you read
the sea is turning its dark pages,
its dark pages.

--Denise Levertov