I shot a man

I shot a man.
It was in Belize,
years ago;
I was riding through town on a bus,
on my way to visit some ruins.
We slowed for a stoplight,
and I saw him sitting there.
The bus window was really dirty,
and we'd been delayed,
so were speeding the whole way,
and even now we barely stopped,
But I saw the man, sitting,
and the orange wall,
and the red awning,
so I took aim
and fired.

It wasn't until 3 weeks later,
when I got the film back from the lab
that I saw the snake.
I guess he had a weapon of his own.


* * *

Tourist in the tank of life

Though the environment in here
is perfectly modulated --
The temperature sublime,
The water clear,
The sky cloudless --
There are still challenges to be faced:

Crowding, for example.
Why,
just because this is the best spot,
does everyone else have to gather here?
I would so prefer to have it to myself --
to drift at my own pace
instead of dodging all these fellow travelers;
to dress without worrying
what all the other tourists are wearing...


* * *

Echoes on the tongue of sky

If the boundaries
between then and now;
between sea and shore
were to become more fluid,
where would the seaweed float?
Would it begin to drift
toward a likely-looking petunia;
Would it,
having seen the chameleon,
learn to shift its colors
so as to blend more smoothly --
and how would the petunia respond?
And what new scent of union fills the air --
pungent petunia?
Or would it be
the aroma of the sea?
Perhaps when they begin to breathe together
the world will smell of fruit --
Of blueberry, perhaps, or pear;
a sweet mystical union of fragrances
to echo on the tongue of sky.


* * *

Mourning for the Shadows

Curled in the ancient womb of dark,
The soul becomes restless
and begins to stretch --
an arm here,
with fingers poking at the edge of light,
a foot there
(toes, wiggling in the fluid space,
testing the waters
before leaping into dawn).
And yet, when morning comes
and sun ignites the sky,
sending smoke signals scurrying upward --
as if to say, "A new day has arrived!" --
She takes that first deep breath;
cries out one last lament
in mourning for the shadows.

* * *

Drawing the line

I almost bought a copper kimono once,
to hang upon my wall.
Found it in a gallery,
went back to visit several times,
didn't think I could live without it
until I got up close and saw
the tiny streaks of red
splattered down the front, like blood --
nothing serious: more a lost tooth,
or a flesh wound,
than a saber to the heart --
but still, it stopped me.
I put my money back in my pocket.
I never minded art about mortality,
but apparently I draw the line
at suggestions of violence.

* * *

Remembered images

A friend showed me
another photographer's work;
he'd found a way to shoot in color
over a hundred years ago.
We gazed together at the images
and marveled, surprised
at how real his subjects looked.
Sometimes even my own past
looks black and white to me,
distant, yellowed, faded;
and then I wonder:
are those memories real?
Or are the experiences I remember
-- the three of us in that plastic inflatable pool,
or dancing on the porch --
are they just memories of mother's photos;
not real at all?

* * *

At play in the ocean of night

When do the sun and the night sky meet?
Not just at the end of the day,
but also whenever the light is reflected
in an ocean, a lake,
a puddle, a pond --
Whenever the water's a deep sea blue,
like the sky at the end of the day,
and the object reflected is glowing like love --
that's when the sun and the night sky meet.

And the world rejoices as the colors swirl
through the light and the dark parts of day
which glitter and gleam
and then actually seem
like unmeetable edges have finally touched;
a connection is made,
a light wave is shared,
and the sun rejoices in her own reflected children,
the rays of light that run off to the ocean
to dance with the oil slicks and tickle the otters
who frolic and play in the ocean of night.


* * *