Before you leave,
look at this photo.
This clot of factors.
This visual corpse,
or listen to the pops,
coda of clicks at the end of your record,
that audible comet
spinning on an etched plane of dark matter.
You’re lifting the needle.

Then look again at the photo.
This wad of failed light
confined to a reflection,
a remnant of what caught your eye.
Can you still see your beautiful bias?
Let the aperture
out vote the shutter.
The monk’s zen at play.
All close ups.

Such dangerous wisdom,
unless you’re a pilgrim
having no idea
who, where or
the forbidding,
why you are.
A poem.
That alphabetical slice of reality,
that beautiful hinge of uncertainty,
tempts us to listen.
Do you hear the birds?
It’s understandable,
wanting the little breath they have,
to brighten our world,
becoming the solution that is Spring
for the problem that was Winter.
A poem’s anorexia,
remains a malady you trust,
having once glimpsed
the iridescence of your being,
that unexpected light,
shifting in the darkness of it’s space,
as if taIlored for you alone.
The importance of this awareness,
will wander with you.
No para’s,
No graphs.
The grammarian long since fired.
The generosity of the creative and the crazy
awaits you
in the silence of

the light,
the stone,
the dye in the glass,
the pigment from their souls.


May all of their expressions
reveal the thermals
of Christ’s voice,
ringing in the bell
that is Buddha,
their beautiful bias
dancing with yours.

May all the gifts of spirit
you are about to behold
drop you to your knees.
(dooming your plans for recovery)
May you never recover.


Written to Susan when she left for Paris.