Neither math nor dogs
will lead us there
Tag Archives: poetry
Breakfast
How can nothing be something?
I don’t know, but it is all the time.
And the opposite is also true.
Tinier than a man can see
I had thought light and then dust
was my enemy, but then I saw the mold,
spores of it skipping from the window to the shelf
to the tops of the books below.
These freckles I bleached.
Till I dreamt of them, swirling.
Not for fear but love did I dream –
for he in whom the cancer had spread –
of microbursts and a metastatic sky.
Trickster
God has put himself
there, too, where,
God knows,
we shouldn’t go
Women swimming
They plunged deep in
out of the world
right in the middle of it
It doesn’t work that way
It’s not in a can.
You can’t buy the can
and open it
and pull it out
and dress it up with mustard.
Nor can you dream it up
or get rich enough to buy it.
That’s not what it is.
It doesn’t work that way.
Days of the prophets
Fire withdrawn from a bush in the desert
smolders in hearts
awaiting wood and wind
Unnerving, clipped broadcast of the Champions League
Do you know all
a ball can do
and men, too, until
the broadcast shows what they did?
You are a room
But are you in you?
Are you when you
fly wide in God?
More than semantics
My dead-yet-alive
are, you say, your
memory you’re keeping alive.
But no, without us they thrive.
This difference is more than semantics.
Utrecht Journal 