The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Monday, June 29, 2015

Still Life with Invisible Canoe


Levinas asked if we have the right
To be        the way I ask my sons
If they’d like to be trees     


The way the word tree
Makes them a little animal
Dancing up and down
Like bears in movies
               
Bears I have to say
Pretend we are children   


At a river one of them says
So we sip it    pivot in the hallway 
Call it a canoe


It is noon in the living room
We are rowing through a blue
That is a feeling mostly


The way drifting greenly
Under real trees
Is a feeling near holy


--Idra Novey
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