After We Have Turned All the Mountains Into Ideas

and All the Birds Into Metaphor










The building crumbles

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† but do we need the building?


Letís step back.

Where is the center?


A human geology layered with civilizations and cultures,


†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† grief and ecstasy,


the house you live inó


in these days of excess

what have we built?




††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† ††††




††††††††††††††††††††††† ††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††At the edges of the city,

††††††††††† †††††††††


†††††††††††††††† dreams go wandering.










††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† Everything is new,

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† nothing is new.



The mechanisms of the day persist.



Our friend tells us of coyotes

in broad daylight parading

right down the middle

of Eighth Street.A kestrel perches

on a telephone pole in the alley.








If these four lanes of traffic

outside my house in the clear light


of a Sunday morning in November

are lanes of a river bending


cutting away its banks

like I tell myself when the noise


becomes maddening,

and I open the door and go outside,


look at the river and jump in,

float and let the current take me


at what far banks

will I wash up to shore?









After we have turned all the mountains into ideas

and all the birds into metaphor


will there be something left of ourselves?




††††††††††††††††††††††† Thereís snow in Tucson

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† and itís seventy in the northeast.


††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† Forget


††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† symmetryó


††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† the fluidity is the constant.




There may only be a couple of subjects

at the roots, love and loss

but that is only human.


What is left with all art is a feeling,

something in the gut.









†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† ††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††Days bend


†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† into geometry:



A Wednesday morning becomes a rhombus;

by afternoon, itís a trapezoid,

and by evening no parallel sides remain.










The language of paradigm shifts

becomes tiringó


(although itís true not long ago


††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† the earth was flat)



When the world repeats


we are faced with


the same scenarios


but each present more catastrophic because the present is ours.




Alignments of random points:


larger area + more points = better probability










After we have turned all the mountains into ideas

and all the birds into metaphor


will there be an echo to follow back?





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