#43 Work Day

A ring of six women sit laughing together

to stave off exhaustion in the conference room.

Kettle of fish. Barrel of monkeys.

We carry in our blue lunch pails the tales

of the cross over from home into work life

and vice versa.

My daughter has lost her voice but she rises

every morning at 7:16 to dress again.

I dream a murky river. Not cold at dawn when I dash in.

Pilgrimage: #43: Rite

cafés and bars
and tables covered with paper
the gaze inward
the gaze into space
the gaze in search
she is seeking perfection
the right word will free her
the right thought will enlighten her
the right emotion will save her
she is at a loss
for the precise sound
to open the world
and tame it
hearing only the clang of dishes in the sink
orders given
and steam escaping
like hope in the desert

#42 Los Ojos

Lean far enough out of the door

Of what remains and you can carve

Your initials into the infinite

Then your name will be fed with

The inevitable. Rain and straw and mud

That catches until the wind

Takes it higher toward tin, toward

Snow, toward dissolve and creature

Scurry, earthen joists and finger bones.

Pilgrimage: 42 Weeks: Embrace

looking at this rose
full open red ripe
I know that in a day
or two the petals will droop
dry then fall leaving the hip
behind to be eaten by birds
or to drop to the ground unseen
this rose imperfect
models spirituality
I embrace
imperfect hesitant brave approximate
I know that in a day
or two I will change
consider then fall leaving the bone
behind to be eaten by birds
or to drop to the ground unseen

Call and Response: Having Lost Count

Why must the

cameras rush

so at

the demise

We bow our

heads

to think

We do not know

we are being

photo

graphed

The sky is

rolling

its eyes

Pilgrimage: 41 Footsteps: Window

golden light adorns
the Café walls
fragrant coffee with toast and jam
lovers unable to refrain from touching
the student staring out the window
you and I listening to the words
war is over
war is over
at last
and again

#40 Filling Station

No one stopping any longer

for service at this station

Only the four remaining letters

hint at staying for a fill-up

Chain link fence marking boundary

for this, museum of cracked concrete

and thirteen red bricks imbedded

in the headless neck of its roof