in the open

if we see ourselves anything other
than a flickering image in a mirror
wavering between the trivial and the tragic
then death could not be a pond where we disappear

there is perhaps a deeper humiliation
in being human
lacking the kind of literacy
that would enable us to tell the trees
how unloved we sometimes feel our hands

something consoles us in the breeze
as it animates our lives’ sketchbook
swiftly averting resistances
exfoliating our darker core
to redeem us from failings
that have much to do with distance

we are entrusted to the open
where all things
whatever they may be
wherever they may stand
are at all time beginning

siem reap, september 1, 2011