Inheritance

From their vast estate
they will leave you
their treasured rug -
worn beyond pride,
its crimson threads
regrettably gone,
the grey shadow rest of it
smelling like seven generations
of Alsatian dogs,
the weave of its edges
spilling across the floor
like a camel's entrails.

Out of despair,
you will hang it on wire,
and with a split racquet
you will beat out of it
enough sand to fill
two plastic shopping bags.

The Sting

A bee stung me
on my neck - right here
where someday someone
will take my enfeebled pulse.

My glasses swelled.
My clothes medievalized.
I did that primal jig -
the one that opens

the gate to the next
world. I should have
been nicer to you.
I should have

been a way better
neighbour. I should have
dropped a coin
in that cup.

But alas! Whisper
the bee-filled woods
in my burning ear:
"You belong with us."

Servant

I will potter among the pots

and stand with bags of river sand,

and crouch to gather blooming moss

in vacant woodside parking lots.

And I will prune redundant roots,

and float the junk from jubilant stones

to mix afresh the bonsai’s bed.

And I will snip at twiggy shoots.

This is the bridge, so wide and cold

between good Spring and Winter bold,

which I will cross till I grow old 

as corky fold, as gnarly trunk.

Impurity

Sand travels.
It flows, it blows,
it mingles with the unimaginable.

Marriages sown into shifting plains,
the scent of those who fled,
whole tribes who scattered,
the glassy life
that somehow shattered.

Diamond rings
sunk in golden beaches,
and ant lands,
and god knows what made it
to the farthest reaches.

Blending the pieces
is an Earth who refuses
to forget a single scrap,
even the inconsequential
particulars
that escape the human map.

In our heads
we may well hold a clean vision,
such as one who waits alone
on a clear day
at a station

a good half hour
before the train is due.

Plover

Plover, even Death would be startled by your cries.

When I heard you passing by that night

Beyond my same old kitchen window,

My toes went chill, and my glasses fell

Off my nose and landed in my soup,

And I wished I could have fought a little harder

For all the things I love.

Flight improvement

We have decided that birds
must be taught how to fly
better, this time from scratch.

When a pedestrian approaches,
some birds appear to misjudge
the perfect time of departure.

Others could improve
the angle of their turning,
the arc of their swoop.

Some struggle with a high wind,
while others are taken
by prowling cats.

And so the plan is
to round them all up
and teach them a better way.

They will undergo training
in the measurement of angles,
in the calculation of forces.

They will learn to reflect on their method,
to analyse their performance,
to apply theory to practice.

Finally, we will all live 
in a world where birds 
fly properly,

a world where we can all 
sleep better, too -
particularly the birds.

Outset

Not surprisingly, 
an ant,
as small as the felt tip 
of a pen,
in the vast synthetic 
desert
in which you work,
picks up the scent 
of yesterday’s curling sandwich,
from many ant miles 
away.

At the outset 
of a working day,
each task
set by the master
strikes you 
as being nothing short
of impossible.

Then again,
nothing goes 
to waste.