The Blue Book


If I am silent, it is
because I know no science
nor vocabulary for this knowledge,
suspicious only of those that claim
some sentimental connection
with a passed doctrine
dancing on in the muddy mind,
forgotten for a moment
what we are.

Let slip that we are something
less like granite and more like mud,
all water-logged and malleable,
marked by the footprints
of a million passing souls,
some lost in the breaking waves,
some whirling in ecstasy
at the water’s edge,
and off the flying robe a drop,
caught forever in this sunbeam,
all amber and memory
and the music of rising night.

And silence…

Still, the turning point,
and a shuffling salsa in the dark:
dawn and the magic of dew
a single drumbeat away.


Appreciate irony

And save the books