Only the slightest opportunity to gather my humility and ask,
Barely an interest in the falling snow
Of seasons and the heat of minds taking notice
Of arrears or evictions.
Clever tendencies eviscerated, cloven, sunken,
Meted out so again I am driven, humble,
Mute but for this asking of the far shore for the light
Or rise of night.

The dusk, the umber, the sheer number laid up by the hill
In the storm of your coming.
The good Lord laying the proud low,
The begging bowl and restless determination
Make proud sinners practice their own relief operations.
Improvised but for some need of us,
Some purpose hidden by vast extents of space and time.

That is what the teen agers say about death beds in school essays.
There is marking up and down
Just as Dante’s avatars slid through the rivers.
Just as the Buddha returned to save us at the border,
At the pass, at the crossing from this state of mind to that.
Interesting is not a sufficient adjective.
Our freezing chickens and miles of highways and the dust,
Even in the sky the dust billows and layers in the foundations
of future crumbling and infinite achievements.

So comprehensive, personal and comprehendible,
Like a wailing wire overloaded by current and voices, sparks and fire.
Like an online nugget, a mine for the mimes of the mind.
One may ape the inquest for personal identity or
Troll the trout and salmon at the water bridge but
Such muds and sledge upon collapse leave us old, harmless, needy,
But for our vote, our collective, our throat.

Come timely, come soon,
Don’t let me box the audience with indiscriminate trivia.
More rushed blather like the melt water or
The earthen dam collapse.
On our heads, around our ankles, the poverty and hunger
Like animals who know better how to live off the land.
The letter, our song, our voice, our legacy and inheritance
All a jumble like stones in the field or pearly around the neck.

The deity so long and blue,
The myths turning out true,
Seeking the rhyme this time
Above all else –
Organic to truth as one smoothed from the same gullet,
Raised like grass from the soil by no one.

Hover a little closer around the fire.
We have some spit with meat spattering oils and flavor for the pan.
Our lives and marrow, the good book of tomorrow,
Do lean in with your push
At this rock gate, entry to the rivers
Undergirding worlds a spin beyond foundation,
Freely traveling the tight emptiness
Of elusive and persistent connections.
Perhaps one must train the mind
For such valuable and unlikely perceptions.

By Rolf Stavig
1/15/2024