Not thinking about last Friday

I woke up this morning

not thinking about last Friday. 

I drank three cups of coffee

and wrote for an hour

also not thinking about it. 

I didn't think about last Friday

on the bus into work

or at all during the workday.

I didn't think about

not thinking about last Friday

on the bus into work

on the bus home from work

or walking around the lake

just now. I didn't think

about last Friday at all, 

just about all the Fridays

ahead. How they won't be

what I thought.

Heart's Desire

I bought an oilskin bucket hat

at the U-District street fair

yesterday that reminds me

of the hat Edward Hoagland wears

in the author photo of his book

Heart's Desire, a book I read

on a 56-hour Greyhound trip

heading west to California when

I was 25 and didn't know what I wanted.

 

All these years later and I come

to find it's as simple as a hat, 

a good book, and a sense of direction.

Missing Bits

Woke up early, bits of my self

still scattered

all over the apartment.

 

Someone knocked me over last night.

I hit the floor wrong.

Shattered.

 

Been gluing me together

all morning.

This piece cut my foot.

This one, I don't even know

where it goes. 

 

Some chunks of heart

flew under the fridge

where I can't reach.

 

People always mean to clean

under the fridge but they never do.

 

Whatever's there stays lost.

The Bumblebee

Even more ungainly than he ever was aloft

a one-winged bumblebee crawled up and down  

toward some end that I could not divine

across the graveled public-garden path.

 

Meanwhile, all around the day was grace.

Sunshine blessed the ginkgos with its

many gentle hands. Koi slid through

their quiet worlds with murmured benedictions. 

A bed of moss bade us lie down upon its

tiny pillowed meadow strewn with stars.  

 

Your hand found mine again. It had been months.

The bee pressed on. Suddenly I understood

the end toward which he sought: The one

with whom he'd wing through all this wonder.

                    

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