Every movement whispers some other trace

                  the cost.                  I thought I heard it

that heavy engine of regret

                                                      roaring in my ears.

I couldn’t ever be just here                              but am a ghost

                                    a vanishing.

                  Being here            am thus not                            some place else.


At the grocery store I picked vegetables

the ones that shined

                                    made my own choice

about what I’d need to make dinner


& this is such a small thing.  It’s almost not even worth mentioning.

                  But life is made of such fragile moments

                  & we recognize them         we feel them happening


we feel them slipping fast away.

I try not to hate my life.


I don’t have one story.

I concentrate on my happiness   try to let it burst

                                                                        & permeate

everything                            the way flecks of hard orange light

                                                                                          some mornings

                                    can make the day seem more real

& all our mute objects holy.