this is a true story:  my morning
was interrupted by the offer of a cup of magic tea
made from an herb called dreamwort.

when i stirred the tea, it stirred a dream
from which i didn't wake up
for four centuries...

i woke up to the power of my own
authority continued in the past tense
after a long unraveling of one knot after another.

"oh god," you say, "this is going to be one of THOSE poems."
all of you who wish to do so, may leave the room now
because in three more lines, the double doors will be locked--

the door to Beginning
and the door to End.
the star-crossed stars will line up in uneasy alignment.

(it's difficult as hell to keep to
three line
stanzas.)

as moments of clarity in a contemporary milieu
with its sickening social model
are emptied of spirit,

would that a poem could provide a revelation
of the finitude of our lives;
the fragility of all that we hold dear, thereby helping us to treasure this treasure.

this morning, the wind foretold a hesitant rain
whispering to the wet-behind-the-ears leaves
across the chasm of late spring.

but as i was saying: you never step in the same love twice.
Or do you? when this poem looks behind its back,
maple leaves sway as if

accidentally moved by a ripple
from an unforgotten romance, sneezing.
let others stand with their backs to the wind.

let others whack the unneeded words from this poem.
i am the poet with nothing to say
and too many ways to say it