by Vyt Bakaitis

Where the word leads
is no guidance
we have been there before
if at all
over again beyond doubt
whether the ice will melt
with the corpses snug in the harbor

What you were spared could not have happened
the voice of the dead was a cutting wind

Each letter shakes on its stem while the root has a climber

They stood in the small stand of woods like the trees
with suitcases packed and no wherefore to go
and were any still alive we’d remember

While sitting on the hilltop
from the top of a stump
I kept watching the stars
with darkness a cold wind
kicked straight in my eyes
that carried the somber pine grove’s song
down to all sleeping humankind

And was it just that
time went by

Or maybe death
itself went with it

with everything I wanted to clear my mind of
but the mind played this trick

if I could only remember

by Pierre Joris

earlier this morning
on that leafless
(not lifeless)
bush next
to the li’l
lily pond on Shore
Road.
“Why did
you count them,”
you ask laughing,
because they were
there, I belatedly
think of answering
you now that
they’ve all flown
away to congregate
elsewhere making up
different arrays
of spare un-
numbered
spar-
rows

by Pierre Joris

The great dying
of the birds
puts cheap gas into your cars
& a feather on the hat
of this and that
“industry,” celebrating
its adage, a dollar is
worth more than a life,
any life.

by Leonore Hildebrandt

The real thing is abundant —
like wind gusts on the mountain.
An ocean so cold, it grips the swimmer’s wrists.
A trail clamoring up through a boulder field.
Odetta singing with her eyebrows pulled together,
slamming hard on the guitar — in self–defense, as she put it.

The real thing does not need attention — yours, mine.
It’s unmistakable even when claimed by dueling parties.
Like graffiti.
The ring of a hammer.
Sweat.
The real thing knows how to dance in a dark night.

And there is you, my love —
solid as igneous rock —
you do not render the world
sunny–side–up or over–easy.
Your calm is the real thing.
Sometimes the real thing is hidden.

Sometimes the real thing is sad.
It slumps on the floor, crying.
It says it needs a break from being real —
too much pressure.
Call the doctor, quick. Talk to it.
Wrap your arms around it.

Nothing is too small to be the real thing.