her book

I borrowed her book
a student who's name I've lost
I'll call her Hannah
though I know it's not her name

an adaptation of Alice in Wonderland
rode to Arkansas that first spring
Laura lived there

stacked among other things
on the floor behind the passenger's seat

there was a leak
water dripped from the air conditioner
soaked the carpet at the feet on the passenger's side

later I noticed it soaked the stack of things
on the floor behind the passenger's seat
including the book I borrowed
from my student I'm calling Hannah
but who's not

I offered to buy her another
a copy not soaked by water from an air conditioner
"it's a first edition" she said
though I did not replace her copy
with one that was

I never read the book
leant it to students over a few years time
til it went on its way

from 'a storied procession of palms'

the Prado
remnants of a wealthier Lima
where Spanish colonial mansions now house oficinas

an avenida
where two strips of street travel in different directions
palms stand in the green space between street and sidewalk
cars and emissions fill the space beneath the green fronds

I ride along through continuously warm days
surprised that the magnificent now diminished to a roadway
only hints of a splendor that once existed

nine words

I stand beside the back door
on a Sunday afternoon
the light is low

I've just returned from a trip
in my grandparents Rambler
I'm not more than four

a day spent with cousins
whose names I never knew
a wood paneled room
I never visited again
my first Big Red

my dad asks me
"Jamie, where did you go today?"
And I respond
"Daddy, you know I don't know where I went"

If there were a bead for every time my father
told that story
that necklace of beads would stretch
beyond my sight

nine words made what could have been
a forgettable afternoon
more than it was ever meant to be

who are no longer

today I woke thinking of mothers who'd been planning Christmas parties
now there are no children to attend these parties

yesterday my mom mentioned gifts under Christmas trees for children
who are no longer alive

tomorrow something else will cross my mind
and those children will not be here

grounded

my day began with lightening and rain
a short walk backwards on the trail
the two of them darting among familiar trees
hidden briefly

on our street - a tree lit where one appreciates another chance with the holiday
I'd been nudged earlier this morning by the smell of pork
now the day holds so much - cars and grades
and lost childrens' lives
it's right that there's too much to grasp
feel I nibble at the edges - peer into a dim lit window not even able to make out the shadows
of a Sunday in December with a beer, an open notebook and familiar faces

More Rimbaud - War

might yea 

but where can anyone find right

my angle of argument

my dance of disobedience

requiring logic

to make sense of the act or situation

lodged in the situation of the day

the same breeze sets the blades of grass on their sides

and bobs the clover heads in a rhythm of vibration

so much from a breeze

more Rimbaud - Novel

warm  air

cool breeze lifts my hair  

waves notebook pages 

flutters wine scent

noise from cars passing resemble the slow flow of water

soft conversation laps at space

comes in waves no regulating beat

discordant conversations fill space 

best not to attend to the actual words

rather attend to the cadence of the voice