poetry notebook

For in one way the pro and the other way con

What is it you’re going to call yourself?

No matter which way you soar

Up into the air or down into a canyon

The soaring of falling, the falling of flight

“You are” – “I am” – this

Box, mostly invisible but certain

In that delerious way, your impression

Upon others and theirs upon you.

That judgment jettisoned with the other

Would bring a miniscule improvement

To the turmoil we were born to live with

A grain of sand in the Santa Cruz sand dunes

And the dunes are nothing but grains of sand

Each breath could be fully aware

If it were.

Sometimes you think you’re so brilliant

Sometimes you think you’re so dull

Jumping judgment to judgment

From branch to branch.

Does matter?