By Gregg
Mosson
Interweaving across rocks, water recreates
itself,
releasing from its smoothing, bubbles, which
burst forth
oxygen and fuel the lush, fern-dazzled banks
where toads erupt from springÕs open mouth
to congregate in fetid backwaters, mating,
releasing small selves;
while I chart my course among many
routes, navigating
between trinkets and baubles, smoothing for
myself a bridge
through this fluid puzzle, where cries and
sounds
stamp the land, and the world vines through
the heart,
and
beyond billboards, intimations of a greater life.
Reading While Driving
and one steering, I made it home to you in blurry rain.
Behind me cars were edging forward, pressing
fast, gassing past—
I saw twilight glint on garbage cans
and knew the right way.
A smile spread through the car like a sunset
as I glided on words and swished through
rain,
reading home, where I will find you with my
hands first
after a day of computer-based work and lunch.
We
shall turn and turn our bodies like two black cats playing.
Oct. 27, 2007
On the backporch after work, taut thoughts
are eclipsed by a dogÕs bark, disperse in the
spark
of sun on an opposite building rail—
shutter, relax away . . .
this moment not encompassed by my compass . .
.
buoy of myself, swaying in vastness . . .
space
between waves