one Mississippi, two Mississippi’s…    five Mississippi’s.

how long for smoke to congregate?    or do we gather the other way round?

dissipation.   does that mean less?   or more, spread out on the table, wide.
     salt and pepper.    surrounding.    embracing.     taste.
 

this will need do as my sugar substitute.

one.

it’s not the water that passes under the bridge.   it’s the water that passes beneath your feet.   can you feel the body you are walking upon?   how it softens to your familiar stride.   like tide and sand, it slips away so easily.
hardly time for hands to reach inside.    let go, that’s the wisdom here.
 

two.

I remember you.   but that’s the story I repeat to myself.   see the paint brushes in my hand. see the colors fade, then return.   brown then gold then blonde, all shades of silk.   if memory has a color, it’s the color of sky.   from the far corner of my eye a cat takes shape.   then gone.
 

three.

how is my balance the same as yours?   should we lean, the other comes along, bright-polar shadowing.   embrace.   falling, even while we are still the centers of the universe.    in your arms.    same as me.   all balance, relative to the one center of the universe.   here.
 

four.

here, this is inside the lion’s cage.   no cape, none at all.
of what I anticipate.   I couldn’t be more wrong.   it’s a gift.
it is always farther than I think.   and sooner too.

     balance restored.

perspective is mirror image.   right here.    reflecting.
     I am myself recursively.

I am a prisoner of wings.    promises.
 

five.

for many years I had a tail.   it was a way to remember home.   motion is the better part of true.   changes.   change is understandable.   that is to say, we hold it above our heads.   focus is resident.

if the river seems making us apart.   then swim as a river swims.   inside.
     body all around.   without conditions.

mississippi is my name.

I wonder where the ocean is.

keep your preferred knife not among knives but among the poor
defenseless spoons.    Alexandra Horowitz, On Looking

 
 
 
a poem lion is nothing for show and tell.   the color of their words,
complementary to our vocabulary.   rendered meaningless grey.
          out of step to our ears, nameless, to pronounce.

old adage.   you may not have seen their shapes in the grass, the
trees, but eyes have seen you.   their eyes.   clear like noon sun.
          we know how to find you.
          and how you taste.

if kin, we come when you call.   we lean into you.

what rubs across becomes language revisited.
moons get new-found this way.

face to face, we like being that close.   scent is a thirst, satisfied.

think that’s about some lion?   well, no, about this poem here.
management suggests:   turn your back only at your own risk.

here, a story to sharpen your claws.

when you set aside this page, turn away.   then think, oh look
there she is, like no spoons necessary.   no fence.   a smile.

fallow feet trace soft lines.   what’s in.   what’s left, behind.
that song you hum, that becomes my name.

          scent.   sound.   sight.   navigate.
          taste awaits.   you’ll see.   she sleeps with you.
          eyes closed means family.

          even asleep the pages are gathering words.
          licking lips.    you think poems don’t?

now awake.
four feet close at hand.   an easy breath.
 
 
 
 
odd.    how I feel the wind blowing through the tall grass
          and through me.

and.    no matter the story I recall, how it comes to a sadness
          told like a star.   I return to graze once more by choice.
          like a cloud inside a seed.   nomatterwhat.

          my turn to smile.   to show my teeth.

          loving this stance.   nomatterwhy.
 
 
 
even when outside the room.   more than cousin.

family.   we know because our breathing is some kind
          of thread.   some kind of rope.   asked with

an outstretched paw.   claws.   you remember them.

          whose belly will rest a head?
          a story in sleep becomes history.

we know what was said, and by whom.

could’ve meant sister, that color you painted into sky.

here, this is where we sleep.   (trusting you.)

          word by word
 
 
          the remainder of them, we eat.

 
you won’t know what this poem will be tomorrow.

perhaps a stranger, fellow traveller, or even lover, lost.

we might remove the mask only at the very end.

anticipation.   who I am.

dare – surprise.

borne again.   (the other way)

he tells you his name.   his hand to his heart.

meaning here, you understand.   same circle

where you now stand.   grace is given.

I am the poem.   not some object, in another box.

treat me as if I were alive.   a candle flame.

is it yours?   ownership curls at another’s feet.

but still, reading makes you integral.   magical.

so yes, you’ve been here before.   there,

your initials carved on the landscape and.   this story,

as they say, it’s a mystery.   come tomorrow to see the end.

humans travel with meaning in their feet.
 
 
 
when young it was about what do I get.

much older now it’s about what do I contribute.

would’a been better if I’d adopted that child.

a matter of scale.
 
 
 
not only by mouth, but

what reaches the eye is what shapes the world.
 
 
 
living has such a terrifying abundance.

stand mid-stream, look either way.

barely visible, inside a leaf, watching water flow.

the awesome chemistry of light into food.

one leaf shines green, goddess-like,

one withers, too much shade, too hot, too cold,

maybe getting nibbled after dark.

or am I the limb, the branching stem,

a society of leaves, ever turning to each day.

we love the rhythm.   we love the feast.

oh, yes, and then a flower.   living becomes

a butterfly from nothing much.   spreads

wings into wind.   another, different leaf.

thus you find me here.   resplendent.

not my doing.   not undone.

if you must.   blame the stars.
 
 
 
 
 
 
image:   how the universe used to look to astronomers; the image
                recorded directly onto a photographic glass plate.