SATURDAY MORNING

I walk for long periods of time these foreign streets
and think about serious things.
I walk for the painting on a blank canvas,
I walk for those things I cannot perceive
but I know they’re there, I walk
for the voice of the wind in the trees,
I walk to forget old feelings
and old forms of inspiration, for want
of a better word, I walk for the sound of fog
carefully everywhere descending,
I walk for that far off place,
I walk to open my book.

(20 February 2006)

LAST SUPPER

The crowd gets smaller and smaller
every year—other avenues open up.
I feel as though I’ve made a family here,
far away from my homeland, I will call it to mind often.

It will take a lot of work to make these
the best years of your life—looking at the world
through exhausted eyes, thinking about the week to come.
The weight, if we are faithful, will not become lighter.

The golden fire, we must keep it
bottled up inside of us. Only outside
can we pass the flames to other trees.
Some day, we may forget how to do that.

(20 February 2006)