The veil of weather, the hopeful smell
of just-cut grass, the who-knows-what
that goes on behind closed doors –
all commingle, become strange companions,
if we can make a place for them.
The ocean, its undulations
and its calm, the variety of what it hides,
the ways it crashes and recedes,
are clearly one big thing,
and those unaffordable, grand vistas
at the end of cliffs, and the poor bastard
on his porch peeling an orange
could meet in some macrosphere,
if such a place can be made.
Blueberries for the picking
in a neighbor’s field, ten cents a box,
a snake sunning itself on a rock –
‘the power of the mind
over the possibilities of things’,
permitting even the impermissible,
yet also, in the gray
shimmery air of our best intentions,
the easy lie, the forced resemblance.