There are days
when the world streams past
like a horde of satiated ghosts
rushing out the back door
of the auditorium–
the show here is over–!
headed to their various ports of entry
before they close.
There’s the empty light socket
in the train station in Dover
that crackles and hisses
between 2 and 4 AM,
and the crook of an oak tree
that’s open for the crescent moon.
It never even knew, of course,
the event was in progress.
They’re strange, these days.
Nothing is bolted down.
A cow flies past.
The sky rings out with sound.
Welders congregate on the docks.
Speeches are offered up on the third floor,
because the first and second are abandoned.
There is a great deal of mulling about,
each in the relative safety
of his or her own mind.
A quagmire evaporates,
then fills back up with questions
no one should ever have to answer.
Then a cow flies past–
yes, the very same.
In the morning,
before the wind picks up,
you can see how every star is an opening
in the blanket covering the world.
If we were closer to the fabric,
the openings would seem proportionately larger,
and we could slip through the netting,
like business travelers.
Always going, but not for good reason.
Because events conspire to happen.
Because we live.
And Life asks this of us.
What use is a compass
in a territory that is always
turning inside out,
shifting time signatures,
and changing shape?
Our hearts are not for navigating,
but for holding still.
What’s happening mostly eludes us.
Stillness is the residue
of an ancient magnetism
the ghosts whisk through,
causing the safety of our minds
to blur into sheets of dreams.
That cow just flew past again.
I’ve stopped wondering what it means.
Waving hello is so much more genuine.