NOT YET

We know the sound of two mirrors facing one another, but what is the sound of one mirror turning around to look at itself?

IN KEEPING WITH THE WHOLE

A tantalizingly wide way leads to
my impossible future, impossible because
I can't be there, having been confined
to this moment by an overzealous gatekeeper.

I wish I could find myself doing something else
instead of being so nostalgic about things
that haven't happened yet. You are a
changed person. I can tell from the way

you resume the same thing over and over.
I admire your method of stumbling into
a backward way of seeming accidental,
slowly disappearing into the sunset

while everyone else is focused on the other sunset,
the one painted onto the wall by an anonymous muralist.

AFTER

Wait until you're older
to read this. What it
means hasn't been
born yet. What it

used to mean died
an incorrect death
at the hands of one
no longer qualified

to believe a word
I say. Most of it
will be repeated
several times, but

only after it has ceased
to matter even to me.

THE CENTER

Sometimes something
in the center of
what's old is
trying to be new

again. It can't,
of course, but
nevertheless makes
a noise it tries

to hide from those of
us who know better.
The noise is a lot
like the noise

an old man makes
trying not to die young.

AGAINST THE GRAIN

Time flows in
all directions now,
trying to get there
before us. The

severed head squawks
like a chicken as its body
scampers across the
yard in disbelief.

I crack time
from an egg and
teach it to talk.
Water begins drinking

itself in pursuit of
a different tomorrow.

YOU AND I

Now that humanity
has lost its way,
can we begin at least
to beg for a little

more mercy? I
see no reason to
step on you just
because you're lying

underfoot. I'm more
than willing to take
the long way around
you at the risk of not

arriving. We look so
much alike, you and I.

BY DAY

I'm not sure what's
meant by an old man
skipping along a roadbed.
But I have some

clever ideas about death
I'd be willing to share with
you after they finish
drilling for oil in

my brain. A bug
still delivers the elixir,
of course, and disillusioned
men still drill themselves

into the ground day
by dreary day.