To walk the construction of spoken thought,
the assumption of sentience
for presuming infinity
despite our measure of time
by Earth’s rotation round itself and the sun
instead of a galaxy’s turn
or the expansion of the universe.
Mournful, the passage of clay to steel.
Of the gas-drunk, bobbing silence of a weather balloon
and anticipation of another’s face,
of the heat between two foreheads,
to the switch-backed distance
between wire-tapped voices—
updraft of drier wind and unceasing array of lights—
Who needs magic letter-counting
or a network of psychic friends
when the last poem I wrote
was about seeing the face of God
in the rind of an orange I had forgotten
I’d left in a desk drawer the day before?
Sliding forward, upward pucker
soft and fresh, pore
to first slick of spring dew.
An ancient etymology.
Syllables underfoot
unfolding across continents,
thousand-year scroll unscraped,
each overwritten character
layering through, spelling new words
with old ink,
Ten days a wisp of smoke
from one ancestral strum to the next
distant guitar on the horizon
stark like a city sunset.
A poem that is great fun!
Full title: A Friend Tries to Quit Smoking While Serving on a Faith and Practice Revision Committee
