Static Poems

is profundity in the wise man,

children and grandchildren

don’t bother him,

don’t alarm him.

To represent a particular outlook,

to act,

to travel hither and yon

are all signs of a world

that doesn’t see clearly.

In front of my window

—wise man says—

is a valley

where shadows pool,

two poplars mark a path,

leading you will know where to.

Perspective

is another word for stasis:

you draw lines,

they ramify

like a creeper—

tendrils explode—

and they disburse crows in swarms

in the winter red of early dawns

then let them settle—

you will know—for whom.