Noticing What is not There

You are driving somewhere,
you see the road moving toward you.
You look up, a small sighting shows
you the road moving away from you.
Under you it passes, unnoticed.
You sit still thinking of coffee and love,
the long past, the short, clipped now,
and how the future reaches out to the past,
the two hugging the now like a teddy bear, a lover.
Today it is like a clump, all of it.
Biographical speed is reflexive, an accelerant
in the kingdom of what I feel.

The word designation arises.
I could call it a current, that unnoticed feeling.
But now I am just guessing. I don't know.
Let's call it false truth.
I am designating again.
My elbow is on the open window.
I am at rest while the car moves.
Now I am thinking of a field,
green prairie grasses, still.
Something is moving the grasses.
There is nothing to see but movement.
There is nothing to hear but movement.
I notice wind.
It comes like apparel, like the emperor's new clothes.
Each thing stands up for the next thing.
Sort of like peeling an onion.
Only I will stop now, just short of the center.
It caresses soul, this letting.
It allows me to imagine the center.
Now soul pushes gently against this,
this bright nothing.

Along the side of the road
a hot mouthed grackle pleads.
I am just passing.

Young Crows Practice their Floating

Elicit wire against blue sky.
Below, empty orange pronged
parking spaces are not earth;
None of us were born in this.
Let the wire be unknown.
Then crows float without flutter.
Let the wire be common perception.
The mind settles.
Across, a woman wearing bread crust
colored legs, rounds a Honda.
Now four young crows snark, float.
The wire arises in here, creasing the sky.
People pass, dying in their bright-colored
chrome cars. Lonely tinted interiors,
unnecessary empty seats.
Further ahead when the wire is gone
there are no crows.
Every moment is like this.
Every moment is like this.
Call it standard, call it a function,
only a function of what you need.
Solicit sky behind wire.

The Conveyance of Light

It is stubborn, the light,
as it seeks to arise just
to the left of their dark ties.
There are things between them,
just as there are things between us.
Each thing is like a grocery-really.
It may be something we will take
to stay alive, but later it may
contribute to our demise.
Grapefruit, sugar smacks, asparagus.
a can of string beans, biaxin.
But for the two men, these things
of value sit behind the heart,
slightly out of view.
I long for one moment of understanding.
It would be a moment of complete silence,
a moment when the hearts would bow,
and there, coming into view, would be
the things themselves, unrepresented.
No opinions, nor analysis,
no sense of something following.
A seating.

A tall silver haired dark skinned man
would look out at us with this commentary:
"This is how we learn."