Miasma

A cloud of moths

boils around 

the street lights

in this silent

leafy town.

Like tiny angels

or the souls of babies

who were never born

still trying to escape

the inky darkness,

the breath of hell

that thickens the air

of this accursed town.

I won’t stay nor seek

a place to sleep

under the linden trees

with their heart-shaped

leaves in this heartless

town where all the shades

seem to be forever drawn.

So I keep walking

out past the black soil

of the furrowed fields.

There is no moon

tonight, I feel my way

along the darkened road

with the sound and friction

of the pavement against

the thin soles of my shoes

to where the air is clean

and smells of wild grass.

-Dachau, 1972

Songs in the sky and bushes

Red constellations

of berries on the toyons

stand out against

the evergreen monotony

of December.

They don’t appear

to have been harvested

yet by the flocks of

invisible birds sweetly

singing in the shrubbery.

What we once called

tweets. Before the word

was turned into a term

for short texts

posted on the web.

I would be very happy

if it were to be reclaimed

by robins, finches, juncos.

Vireos, warblers, and wrens.

Even when I can’t see them,

I know that they are there.

Like the ninety percent

of the universe

made of dark matter,

only detectable by its

effect on the visible.

Like God. If you know

what to listen for, a song.

When I rose I saw

The year’s last rose

bravely blazing pink.

I think. Or is it orange?

She does not fear

the wind or frost.

The cloud just above

the bridge that links

the refinery to the prison

shines like a fiery spear.

Perhaps she just

wants to join our

merry Christmas lights

strung along the eaves

and wrapped around

the trees. The leaves

of the bloodgood maple

just below her throne

glow like stained glass

windows in a chapel

when the sun cracks

through the branches

of the sequoia like

the winter solstice

dawn at Stonehenge.

The path

The pathway through

the spine is narrow.

Sometimes it gets

smaller and crowds

the spinal nerves.

My darling, my love

is in the hospital

with this condition.

The bone in her

lumbar vertebrae

was squeezing.

The surgeon enlarged

the passage, but now

the membrane that

protects the spinal

nerves had been

abraded and needed

to be patched.

Her horizon now

must remain the plain

of a hospital bed,

she can’t even see

the view of the slough,

and the clouds stacked

above the mountain.

The doctor says 

that thirty-six hours

should tell the tale if

the patch has sealed

around the cord.

After the surgery

when she was put in

her room, night had fallen

and so I could not drive.

I thought of who I might

call or should I download

the app for Lyft or Uber.

But the need to get there

was more urgent, more

embedded in my heart

so I decided to walk.

With a small flashlight

and my cell phone,

it should be alright,

a walking prayer along

the dark and narrow path.

An act of active faith.

The test was harder

than I expected, most

of the path along the

former railroad is darkened

by tall redwoods and

my flashlight was too dim

to see the concrete

dotted with fallen leaves

from the storm. I made it

to the hospital. The walk

back home was harder.

Sometimes my steps

wandered onto the soft

turf beside the path.

I stopped and found

my way each time

until I reached the lights

of town where the shops

and theater lit the way.

IIn the morning I drove

back to the hospital

and spent the day

with her, helping her

to eat and reading

a story to her about

a giraffe who was ferried

down the Nile and sailed

across the sea from

Cairo to Marseille.

From there she walked

to Paris in 1829, a gift

from the Viceroy of Egypt

to the King of France.

Today my love will see

if she can sit up without

the pain, if the patch

has sealed the spinal leak

and this can be the final

steps to her recovery

and safely home. 

The Stone of Unction

The stone of Unction,
a slab of native limestone
where His body was anointed,

lies beneath a slab of marble

to protect it from pilgrims who

once took chips from it.

The marble has been worn by

a thousand thousand kisses.

How can stone feel this soft?

I am surprised and pleased

by its warmth, it asks my lips

to linger. Then the shock

-like the ones I’ve felt run up my arm

to my neck after walking on synthetic

carpet and touching a doorknob.

Hair standing up like an cat

arching its back, a small and not

really unpleasant tingle that felt

like Welcome. Like the tears I had shed

at the foot of the Western Wall,

the Wailing Wall of the Second Temple

where I slipped a small prayer

entrusted to paper into a crack

between the blocks. It was answered.

Many times. Times that sometimes

I wish were gentler, but it was

the right prayer. And the blessing,

the embrace of the Holy Spirit

when I kissed the Stone of Unction

confirmed it. I carry it still.