Twitter: Moon-Suns

The air is screaming, “Hawk! Hawk! Hawk!”

Hay bales settle into the shorn field.

I’ve been lost in a world of tiny mushrooms and painted lady butterflies.

Stained glass insect. Little windows in the air.

I want words to be smaller. I want to see the sky.

There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun. — Thomas Merton

The sun, obscured by the moon, took on the shape of a moon. A confetti of moon-suns fell at my feet.

I will remember what I heard more than what I saw: hundreds of cicadas flexing their tymbals in the false-dark day.

And the one dying at my feet as we entered near totality.

I will remember silent streets and still air, charcoaled sky, the amber of streetlights.

I will remember any or all of this. Or none of it.

That old question surfaced: What matters?

I still don’t know. But here I am, with eyes.

how you can look back / on a life & see only salt there — Sam Sax

Who am I without the barn swallows?

Poetry: Machine Logic

I’ve been writing elsewhere about the body today, so I thought I’d share this poem which challenges the notion that we are not of the flesh but somehow apart from it.

Machine Logic

They say we are not the containers we live in,
that our meat and nerves are only tools we use,

parts of a machine that moves when we think
move and remains still when we think still.

They say we are the owner and owned in one,
the mind giving orders that the body takes.

What then of the fear that rises from muddy
hocks before the pig nears the stunning
and bleeding room.

are designed to shield animals from what’s
around the corner, yet their bodies tell them

to scream long before the hanging area
comes into view.

………………………..What machine gives
such warning, perceiving before the mind
registers the danger the body is in.

What hoof awaits the order to run
before its final and failed attempt to run.