Things are exactly as they should be — as they must be — all is simply a matter of natural, inevitable succession, as fluid as a river, with the river’s twists and turns — none are right or wrong, better or worse — the river is acting according to its nature, and is fulfilling itself at its own timeless pace, heedless of the sluices and dams in our thinking. Hold […]
Through pink clouds of plum flowers And air too cold for bees — even Grief seems pleased To find You — in your white robe — Love — February 26, 2020 [ 677 ]
Time is the ultimate convenience. I don’t know what it is, how it works, or if it even exists. And yet in my precious ignorance, I claim to watch it pass. If I were God, I would laugh — then get up and dance. [ 676 ]
A little bit of marble — stout blades of dewy grass — I expect this too — shall pass — to lichen — us. [ 675 ]
I cut the grass and it keeps growing, Blade by blade, green and green on green. I cut the dawn. It bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. I cut the man. I kill myself with deeds. I turn to seeds. I sow the grass, I sow the dawn, I sow the man. And they sow me. I sow the poem, blind as blind can be. But the poem can see. The […]
Almost two miles into our walk near Goose Lake, where the path winds around an open field, we saw two coyotes trotting along on the bare ground, their reddish-brown coats gleaming with health in the morning sun. Headed in the direction we were, they paused and looked our way. Then we all rounded the bend, and they set off without urgency on another course, as if they might have been […]
“The E Train” is part of a very short-lived series of guitar notes. Now, almost eleven years later, I ask myself — which E string? The low, it appears. Or, Lo! It appears! The E Train Fascinating. The harmonic at the ninth fret can also be played at the sixteenth, and the harmonic at the twelfth fret can be played at the nineteenth. And I’ve learned that if I […]
I fill my lungs with air — feel something strange
in there — akin to childhood — a winding stair that clouds
of dream obscure — or an azure tree of stars — fruit ripe
and sure — of one — last — reckoning
February 18, 2020
Canvas 355 — white on black, February 3, 2014
[ 671 ]
Noted thus far, very lightly in pencil, near the top of the blank page opposite the Index of First Lines, the poems numbered 435, 712, and 730, beginning, respectively, Much Madness is divinest Sense — I could not stop for Death — Defrauded I a Butterfly — all three of which are old favorites of mine — and yet when I encountered them in my slow but steady progress through […]
To have a voice the size of a firefly, with the fleeting effect of a falling star. And then there’s the place where you are, when darkness ripens like a plum. Paralyzing Definitions I met her walking in the woods. It was late fall. We had the trail to ourselves. We were both outfitted for the night, so we set up camp together near a tiny lake just below […]
William Michaelian 
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