connection – poems 2 die for

SET APART

on the farm
so isolated
set apart

from everything;
absolutely

    interconnected

IN PARTICULAR

I am
a part of everything

we all are
and I am a
small, small
part
you might call
a “particle”

though
like light you
might find

I am
my own duality

this thought washing
through my head

as if
it were a wave.

COUNT

count
every atom

every drop
of blood

every grain of sand

count every blade of grass
how they blow
in the wind like
a feast of sabres
a forest
of tiny spears

read
   these words
the desert itself
wrote for you
          (what an ear
the people of
the desert
       have for
the voice
     of God

absolute pitch
when it comes
to the poetry of the soul

read what is written
read what
has been hidden

read the Sun, the stars
the Moon
waxing waning
now
a perfect crescent

read
and count

find a rhythm, your rhythm
calculate all distances
devise
the algorithms
for perfect measure

ditto
and Amen

ditto and Amen

this tale continues
despite our failings, despite
our hatreds
out tragic divisions

the words of the Sufis
written in the stars

connecting every blade
of grass
drop of blood
grain of sand

ditto and Amen

every atom
count, read, measure

FINGERS

forgive me
for running my
fingers down
your spine

to that
place of confluence
my tingling
meeting your
tingling

and talking of tingling
(chimes brushed
by the wind being
what
I am now thinking)

I am in and out
the habit

of making connections

getting
connected

loving every connection
I have ever loved to make

FARM TALK

FARM TALK

let me
withold words

surrender
poetry

thus may I
figure out what
the farm is saying
the trees speaking

catch
these voices
hitherto drowned out
by my insistence to
delve into
the depth of my
faith in language,
human
linguistics

so many different ways
of writing, talking out there

CONJUNCTION

I am writing
a poem

and the world is fucked.

I am writing a poem
but
the world

is fucked

I am
writing a poem

however, although,
the world
is
fucked

am writing
notwithstanding, despite,
in outright opposition to

the
world

being fucked.

I am writing a poem,

have written a poem,

just trying to establish
the precise conjunction.