In Delhi I am obsessed with the ground:
strewn birdseeds
the smell of sulfur
paper cups where grinds of chai
trace the passage of the last sip
inside crumpled edges.
A photography competition at a local college
yielded dozens of feet,
calloused, paint splattered,
extending over stone and into traffic
from day beds where the closed eyelids of sleepers flutter.
Rubber flip flops in grand colors
worn cuffs of pants around dry ankles
frayed saree
I dream of the ground
gray puddle splashing
scent in room hours later
fecund
distinct
syncretic
earth.
A pink condom in a posh neighborhood.
The dry riverbed,
a cow, sacred mother
rustling a bag of old snap peas
culling the best
her calf further downstream
discerning plastics.
The ground is in my bed,
tucked at the base of my comforter
though I bathe just before
and trace the dust on
the shower floor with my toes.
I dream the depths of step wells
home to bats and
small memories of old bathers
enveloped by the city.
Pigeon shit
and human shit
food and plant
every glorious step exposed.

That time I wrote a poem

with too much in mind

Oh yes, that was every time.

Today the rain came without notice

soaking us as we rode

peddling faster than usual

plastic bags tucked into our pants

I don’t have fenders

I should really bring a change of clothes

to this familiar place

where I sit and work without pants on

all morning

the office door closed

keeping them on the windowsill
to dry

Subway

subway, moving toward
home
moving into and out of space
I can see it.

The girl in black tights the print
of wallpaper lace
and boots
or coffee suede
a black beret
laughs as she falls toward her friends when it
brakes.

The music in the station
comfortable
on an unknown instrument,
wooden and big
like a salad bowl with
light, twangy strings

I have never written of the
lightness of winter.

In Detroit

Folks talk about the city

Like a body

A fallible, human thing

Whose weaknesses have been sought out

And blades run through chinks

In its armor.

I don’t know how they spoke of it before

Its “decline”-

The exodus of so many

When the manufacturing went bust.

Now it seems they talk of it

With blunt compassion,

as though it were a wayward cousin

Whom the family loves but who

Has been into so much shit

That he is only regarded

with sighs.

Like the city is a young man

Whose strength everyone used to speak of

And now nobody will mention.

Meditation

Melodies to construct realities

That are never everyone’s realities.

We control only half of how we express ourselves,

the rest irreversibly borrowed.

We control nothing

of how others understand us.

Funny, that love might depend

On how ingenuously I used a symbol

From a quill of symbols -

how deftly I fired it

Into the river

of speech or music

The stones underneath

So smooth

Choosing to change

instead of leave

To make oneself anew

Rather than be unmade.

One morning

First, walk into a small cafe,
preferably one named after a woman.

Next, find a corner seat
where your back can find support
against a wall,
and you can see and hear what's before you.

Then, sit and watch;
Don't create your own story,
Just watch what's there.

Hear the music and the names
of the regulars (this morning
there are two named Joe:
one with a small coffee to go,
one with a blueberry muffin).

See the way the manager
clucks and attends like a mother hen.

Hear jokes that aren't funny
but for which everyone smiles.

Morning buns that stick crystals
of cinnamon and sugar
on the inside of the glass case.

A woman's bright red jacket;

the sounds of castiron from the kitchen;

the morning demeanors
before the coffee
and the morning demeanors
after it;

And if you're lucky,
jazz on the radio
that splashes like a sheen over the checkerboard floor.

So it is,
belonging all to itself
one morning.

Into the Forest

They went to the coast to play

As they often do,

To the house a mile’s walk

From the water.

Through a wet meadow,

Fragrant with heath that

Crushes underfoot, incensing the ground

And over the dunes, otherworldly,

Rendering all footsteps mysterious,

The land deserted and wistful.

He had brought it with him.

She made all sorts of jokes

Obliviously.

Where was it? In the heath?

On her Halloween costume?

In his pocket?

She acted like she knew, but didn’t,

Which enabled all the teasing.

They spent the weekend

as they often do there,

Among friends, concocting feasts

In the big kitchen made small by twelve sets of hands

And innumerable bottles.

They threw pots and set them by the fire to harden,

Made eggs and tea,

stoked the flames, read, laughed often.

When Sunday came, a lingering group wandered once more to the beach.

They watched the puppy chase gulls,

Laughing and burying her in sand and kisses when she conceded defeat

And collapsed down beside them.

He was relaxed and playful,

She was calm and warm-hearted;

When others had left,

they stayed a little longer.

They drove home at sunset,

Stopping where the highway turns inland, eastward into

Deep stands of redwoods.

Wet green canopy, dry carpets of red mulch on the quiet forest floor.

Steep cliffs cut the road sharply around the point,

Yielding thin slivers of beach below.

Where the road turns east against the water, flowing out to sea,

There is a vista and an overlook.

From the vista you can see south and northward,

See the thick froth of waves closing out on the sands,

Spreading to gray turquoise swells they watched build offshore.

The sun burst through patches of splotched gray sky.

Light reflected off clusters of stratus and shot in beams toward the land and water.

They held each other, watched the sheets of it stream down and change color in the dusk:

Deep orange, amber, purple and gold.

Blue audience beyond.

His nerves gave him away.

They were standing, she with her head on his chest.

“Wow,” she thought, “he’s really tachycardic.”

She could hear his heart beating, buzzing like a dragonfly.

She was considering having him lie down and put his feet up,

When he spoke:

“So, do you want to get married?”

“When?” she said, thinking it was another planning talk,

a question with no decision required.

“Well,” he said, laboring on, “I think we should decide to get married

before we decide when to get married.”

Oh, a great response! her mother would say later. The best stuff of an engineer!

He produced a small box,

Handed it to her along with the tachycardia.

For an hour afterward, neither of their cell phones worked,

Silenced by the redwoods, and for our purposes,

Love’s sporadically perfect timing.

A small notch of space was etched out of the whole for them.

They spent it well,

Driving smoothly through the redwoods,

Always touching, not speaking of much:

It is that moment,

The one just after history,

Of simplest intimacy,

Residing in memory and time as one sleeping lover in the curve of another,

A moment after remember, which is only for them,

Driving smoothly through the twilight,

Deep into the forest. 

Swinging Bridge

I move in the space between looking at the clock

and forgetting about it.

Afterward.

I know how long five minutes can be,

In the same way you

Sometimes understand

When you sleep in.

Here, in the space between being and going,

I know my limits in a finer resolution.

The commuter’s grace, relaxed

On the wire, wringing

every minute to not

ruin any moment.

I have confronted the greed of time

and found it placable,

even predictable,

though I admit it only in a whisper...

The bridge could be up, the ride two hours longer.

I am like that swinging bridge, flexible

To the last point, and somehow

the point changes.

What are the spaces where time is extensive?

For better or for worse?

Points of tension signify too much.

Think of it:

A space in which time

Is made of essence

And is not cut short.

The train will come when we want it to come. 

it's a poem day. 
is it raining there like it is here - 
powerful, fat drops that change angles and trees swaying at different rates in the wind? 
The pines are a slow blues, 
the bamboo something cuban, 
the magnolia is rock on the edges and folk rock in the middle. 
And the lime green tree with spiky leaves that I cannot name, 
I just watch and wait for moments of stillness; 
so that one must be jazz.

By boat, maybe.

Ran ran ran to the train this morning, got caught up with home and forgot about extra things like lunch, home keys in the car that had to be retrieved and brought back to lock the door, the busy-ness of 10:30am that means so little parking, parking four blocks away instead of one, running, running to the train, cursing the lights and the unhurried mothers making eventual lefts on their way to spending money on Fourth street.

Ran to be sure and make the 10:29 and got to the platform at 10:24. This always happens, on account, I think, of forgetting that I am perpetually setting my clocks to one minute fast over and over until now they are at least 5 minutes fast. I could have missed it still, I guess.

The knot of breakfast begins to loosen, sweat dries and body regulates; the sun comes through the window stark and bleached the way the rainclouds make it somehow unpleasant but warm. Green grass shined slick by the rain like new leather oiled; brooding bay, the new houses already drab, all tinged with gray - yellow stucco turns brownish, creme and beige already brown. I wonder if the squatters' camps really suffer in the rain or whether they have equipment and protocols for bolstering their makeshifts against the weather? You see a lot of tarps but most have holes or rips and it seems only a matter of time before mildew or mold start to rot things. Just passed the biggest beach ruins: a queen-sized mattress, a gray couch, a wooden flat with a small Coleman laying on its side on top, and a 20 foot radius of debris, particulate collections, strewn around them. I suppose these were judged too heavy or too worthless to take away.

How the hell did they get the couch there in the first place? It's probably safe to say that I'll never learn the real story of the camp and its former inhabitants, the story that has already come and gone, but I've got another year and a half of watching, and intend to see what becomes of it. By boat, maybe...