The Middlewesterner

Red Wing, Minnesota -
this is where I
cross the Mississippi,
cross the Mississippi,
cross the railroad tracks.

Trees in the air
like swirling fog.

Swirling fog
like trees.

“Make notes.
Leave a trail of them.
And so

you find your way home.”

*

“Eventually,” he said,
“it is all one poem.”

*

“Don't set the pen down
thinking there is no more

to say. There is always
more, if you pay attention.

Like blue sky breaking through.”

“Let the tree
be oak. Do not
burden it

with yourself.”

*

“I do not
understand

how much
this is this.”

*

“Solitude is
bitter with its

sweetness.”

This crow, and that one
ten miles back, they both
fly west - what

do they know
that I don't?

Love
in a parking
lot - these

are not neighbors
who stand
so close,

each lost
in the gaze
of the other.

Over the top of the fog,
over the promise of God,

into the shining blindness.

Don't travel so fast you
disturb the silence.

Arrive
by any means.

Love
with the heart

you have.

“Give me wine,
yes, yes. I will

give you poems.”

*

“Poem, the leap
we'd make, if

we could.”

*

“Is not the silence
as important as

the sense?”

The sudden white blindness.

Wet sky so thick.
Cream on berries.

That which
lifts the clouds.

That which
lifts these hills.

That which
makes me

lift my eyes.

Variation on Basho #2

Yammering crowds.
Wind from all directions.
The broken flowers.

Variation on Basho #1

Evening.
Bare branch

with crow.

“Having nothing
to say,” he said,

“does not make me
any less the poet.”

*

“It will collapse
without that word.
If only

you knew which.”

*

“Sometimes
nothing more
than scratches
on paper.

Sometimes
nothing more
than the need
to scratch
on paper.”

“When the master
throws out your offering

say Thanks.”

*

“Well-chewed vowels
is what you need, with

some of them
stuck in your teeth.”

*

“Why so many
red-tails

in your work?”
they asked.

“To see the world
the way it is.”

Ruffle of sky
dragging the hillside.

What makes sense
in such greyness?

Road bends
or does not.

I go with it.

Rain in my face.
Someday the ocean.

Un-
settling is this not

moving when around
you things are.

The green
peach promises

sweetness.

“So many words.
We're blessed that we can

pick and choose.”

*

“Sometimes
not enough
is too much.

How to know
which is which?”

*

“Circle
and circle
like a hawk.

When you see
something, drop
like a rock.”

“It is not enough to write. You
must also have something to say.”

*

“No tougher corner
to get out of than one you've

painted yourself into.”

*

“Do you have to
wait?” they asked.

“No,” he said, “they
line up and push.”

The heavy
fog. Heaven

come down to
earth, to

clobber us.

Such a grayling
sky. No shiners.

I am lost
in the fog.
What is

lost with me?

Not the miles
that tire me,

but the distance.

How much
lifting up

for this much
sky

pressing down?

“Force the wrench
and you break the bolt.

It's not pressure
that shines the diamond,

that makes the poem.”

*

“Make the poem.
Don't make rules

to make the poem.”

*

“The quiet man may have
nothing to say, or perhaps

he does not wish to throw
his pearls before swine.”