Song of the Night Birds
and here comes the night blooming jasmine
across pine valleys swept clean by the evening
wind, the lights of town, the fireflies, the stars
all pinpricks dreaming in this vast strange night
their hopeful light removing one mask to reveal
yet another, and another; is any reflection true?
or simply a ripple in the pond of our existence?
night birds sing out for us to stay away from the
the drifting music distracting us from looking
skyward, from watching for signs from ancient
gods or those mistaken for ancient gods, so listen
and sip whatever coal-black coffee you brought
with you, and wait; there’s honesty in the damp
soil of this earth yet, in the clean air untouched
by humanity’s chain reaction of need and want
and pain and desire; meet me there in the pine
hollow, breathe in the night blooming jasmine,
and keep the whole of your eye on the dark
within the dark for the signal that you are on
the path meant for you, and only you, in this life
Alpine
born into awareness by sunset’s light,
a sprawling rose-gold sheen across the high
desert plain, motels made majestic
for one hour every evening
vistas crisscrossed by hardscrabble
arroyo and low plateaus, sage brush
holding purchase where it can until
fading away in Talavera sunsets
and then, the vast of night
where the neon light from fast food
and motel signs reach out to the void
and find nothing, no forgiveness and
no acceptance, only impossible maw
as above the stars bloom radiant wild
the milky way as rich as fresh cream
poured into David Lynch coffee skies
drinking full, and ascending even now
(This poem appeared in the collection Talavera Sunsets, from Bottlecap Press.)
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