Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry Book

"Under the storyteller's hat
are many heads, all troubled.

Rowing across the lake
all the dragonflies are screwing.
Stop it. It's Sunday.

Only today
I heard
the river
within the river.

I want to describe my life in hushed tones
like a TV nature program. Dawn in the north.
His nose stalks the air for newborn coffee.

Nothing to do.
Nowhere to go.
The moth just drowned
in the whiskey glass.
This is heaven.

Let go of the mind, the thousand blue
story fragments we tell ourselves
each day to keep the world underfoot.

If you can awaken
inside the familiar
and discover it strange
you need never leave home.

You told me you couldn't see
a better day coming,
so I gave you my eyes.

The one-eyed man must be fearful
of being taken for a birdhouse.

Sleeping on my right side I think
of God. On my left side, sex.
On my back I snore with my dog.

The face you look out of
is never the face
your lover looks into.

Suddenly my clocks agree.
One has been stopped for several
months, but twice a day
they have this tender moment.

Fresh snow standing deep
on the phone wire. If you call me,
speak softly.

It's nice to think that when
we're fossils we'll all be in the same
thin layer of rock.

Oh, to write just one poem
that would last as long as that rose
tattooed on her butt!

Last year the snake
left her skin on the floor,
diaphanous like the name
of a lovely girl you've forgotten'
but not her flesh.

Come to think of it,
there's no reason to decide
who you are.

I prefer the skyline
of a shelf of books.

The moon put her hand
over my mouth and told me
to shut up and watch.

Like an old dog
I slowly lower and arrange myself
in a heap of sighs.

Old friend,
perhaps we work too hard
at being remembered."