(Rain).

Phone won’t work
-- rotary, obsolete.
I weep, keep dialing
beyond zero. You urge:
Get new, move on,
purge, leave the past.
I suppose so.
How else shall I ever connect?

(Moss).

Meanwhile, I’ve badgered the snake
back into his tunnel
by threat and thrust of burning stick.
Once he’s out of sight
I push the embers in,
fill it all with earth
and memory.

(Flight).

Look! The bees and wasps
crawl across my face and arms
without stinging.
The secret is not to react.
Then, when they’re all
winging away,
I see welts
of stealthy mosquito bites.

(Flame).

My brother moves
folding tables onto a stage with me.
The lamps are burning high.
I struggle, but cannot
see the room, or recall
at all why we’re there.
He mumbles he loves me.

(Stretto).

So voices of the past,
the erotic, the addictive,
lead at last to the heart
and its own knowing
of the elements.

(Coda).

The circle is forever cast.

4/2/08