Linseed oil

This world, is made up of things, things:
like that robot fish on you tube
silver knobs twisting
movement as real as anything at sea, and
fingers pressed against aquarium glass--
a little girl--
who'll grow up remembering a jeweled fish
swimming lopsided
because
things are real, no matter how much people tell her it was an illusion.
Sylvia Plath lied
when she said: you,
can't put toothbrushes in poems
Linseed oil, for example, has memory,
they will always remember their first contact with light
If
that is true, how different are we?

The toothbrush is real,
it is this poem
that is not

I was never a very good poet anyway

Dusk, after work,
the tiger-striped sky
royal blue
gold like the eye of cats
and shredded clouds
made
the Golden Gate look ravaged
Always, at this hour
I feel
that I can forgive myself all my sins
I don't need no God. No.
This world, the yellow traffic light, the off-key singing of the kids on the bus,
they are all enough
I don't need love, torment, philosophy.
No paradise lost or inferno. No.
This,
is enough for me.

Love

It steals in
so gently
fingers of light
through thin curtains
unwarily, already on your skin
you wonder--
when did it happen
how
did you miss it
how did it touch you through
that wall
how did it
light up that corner of your heart

it is like opening your eyes
already, it is morning.

Yosemite--a journal in sentences

Houses peering over the hill, their hidden faces, eager like children.

That white in the distance above the peak--is that the clouds or snow?

The graveyard next to the vineyard--clean rows of tombs facing neat rows of trees.

A chorus of screams--there's a bear.

Rust-grey barks, black twisted trunks--signs of last summer's fire.

A still pool of water littered with brown leaves--what's that--a fish.

The night sky is a dew covered celestial web.

They saw shooting stars; I only spotted an aeroplane.

Campfire with strangers, full of awkward silences and firesmoke.

Bacon juices make the fire sizzle, sputter and fizz.

After the long climb, the cool creek is tempting, even with the undercurrent.

Late afternoon sun scorched patches of black soil gold.

Early morning--an owl hoots so sad in the dark.

At the peak, trees look so small, I feel like I can eat them.

The stream is a swirl of colors--rust, jade, coal and sparks of sunlight.

I found names of people I know carved out on trees, rocks and moss.

Tents are so thin, our dreams thread together in occasional sleeptalks overheard.

Morning, my jacket still smells of campfire smoke.