Last year transposed my sweet
and savory lists of goals
a mind of its own no longer
ranked as high as soul music.
At eighteen many veils were one
not all but some I needed real
so I worked on them like rows
of conceptual carrots and beans.
Reading not at but throughout
left me unable to communicate
I stopped short on the big climb
scraped knees and came straight home.
Between divorces stacked books
took precedence and destroyed time
open three for breakfast on the table
from each three words to chew on.
Running from every little tornado
keeping a journal on my forehead
returning by way of avalanche
prefaces tumbled into chapters.
When I started having children
all windows opened and I entered.
Teaching them to talk I learned
to listen in waves of old tides.
Glamour scattered about the yard
my father now in his nineties
ventures out only to hear
his kids talk about the middle years.
Those magical days of malicious
sprites with tongs and hammers
bellowing accidents into fates
in those caverns below these surfaces.
Climbing only up at ten and thirty
still on the ladder of continuity.
At forty and fifty I quit counting.
No score can tell a story.
My sixty fifth year of being
twenty something is hardly enough
so I sit on the lawn chasing
sparrows and the odd bluebird.