poems underfoot

self study 
•••••••••

i have scars that look like wrinkles

and wrinkles that look like scars

wounds welded into

textures of leather,

into cutbanks and crannies,

into the fabric of memory’s

undercut bank

i have love that looks like despair

and despair that looks like love 

embraces leap from

a heart of gold,

into currents and canals,

into the flow of hope’s

downstream v

my sister is in every bird

even the plane i mistake for a bird

even the off course balloon

even the meandering moth

they all have eager eyes earthward

all have songs worth singing

all have life left to live

briefly

long enough

for an invitation

to remember a sister

flown too far

too soon

like the leftover love

of the song on repeat,

there’s more to this dove

a warm sun to greet 

like the weary eyes

of the deep southern blues,

suppress the buoyant rise

a carousel of clues

like the shiny top

of the nail in the coffin,

we float and then we drop

back to earth, not forgotten

when i was a kid

i’d scour for shiny rocks

dig up worms for the lake

pet the dogs til they slept

a hollow rite of passage

into manufactured structure

recoiled my wonder

then i found my little footprint

and tracked myself back home

to lay down in a golden pool

of morning sun

next to a dog

i look up to

all these internal acres

can regenerate under

loving conditions

so i must conserve

occasionally i navigate

battered pastures

and wonder what they’ll

say after i’m gone

so i must conserve

it is natural arrangement

i seek

in all configurations

an expansive landscape of one

seeds the soul of many

so we must conserve

recalibrating a nervous

nervous system

takes time after

unabated onslaught

in the dark jungle

of screens and screams

sandhill cranes across the valley

call me back home

i can’t thank them enough

how was i convinced to give up

fresh air

open spaces

deep breaths

river banks

and mountain meadows?

they said

the cheese won’t wheel itself

and

the mice are hungry

well, crumbs it is

something to hold onto

and

something to let go

confront one another

in my darkest alley

with a glance skyward

she breaks them up

crescent lips ajar 

telling stories

of a place

where being is

enough for now

orange flagging tape tied to branches

such intelligent trail marking

but won’t the empty beef jerky wrapper be enough?

your friend will find you.

they can’t miss the sparkle of a busch light

or the pile of toilet paper can they?

your friend will find you.

just hit the gas

and fling the trash

on public lands

a piece of wood that looked

like my grandpa’s knee

walloped and ragged

like an elephant in the sun

under sage brush

on the banks of the madison

he used to ask me

how the fishing was

and i always told him good

even when it wasn’t

there’s nobody around and

the trout only eat dries

and the wind never blows

when the knees stop working