that’s north

not much in the way of sidewalks i
told the shuttle driver on our ride in yesterday
and today, gravel underfoot, my by-foot route confirms
_______
is there a name for this forgetfulness
the not-thinking (forwardmoving automatic)
followed by the glance up
followed by the struckness
of seeing mountains
rising up and around
_______
choking through the exhaust
of the main (only) strip
when i discover kit carson park
knowing i will return here
and the cemetery further up the road
_______
warm good mornings
on the sometimes nonexistent sidewalk
and every other kindness
of strangers seeming to
extend an arm open before them
as a way of saying
you are on your way
(the desert mountain magic
has already begun)
_______
new-to-me bird perched
on telephone wire
long coal-black tail
bright white belly
(some white in the wings when they unfold)
i walk slow close to its perch
to look as much as i can before
the creatures hop-swoops down
(update: black billed magpie)
_______
i love your name i say to violetta
as i shake her hand
in the office where she’s
trying to recover her laptop
left in the warsaw airport
_______
sad dog
on the shortest chain
near the end of the driveway
looks/sniffs but doesn’t even bother
to bark while i walk past
_______
pause to pluck
desert asters
thinnest petals colored lavender
_______
i realized it’s not that i came back (to taos) to live
michael says over a cup of green tea
sitting in front of the picture window
in helene’s house
i came back to die
(as in: a place for the body/soul to rest)
_______
i was trying to tell which directions
the mountains are in
(to set my internal compass) i say
but i realized they’re all around me
they’re embracing you he says
the big mountain – that’s north
_______
i’m so lucky i say
nibbling on a 6-sided tortilla chip
layered with aryuvedic spread
that is a burst of a million flavors
(and i swear i taste orange peel and
ginger in there)
to be here
_______
warm bowl of dinner
(rice and sauteed veggies with
tahini lemon sauce)
cupped in my hand i imagine
circling around the butcher block
can see faces in the golding light

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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