StreetsIf the streets were safe, we wouldn't need houses. We could sleep on the streets, next to our neighbours. In fact, you wouldn't need streets. You could sleep on the grasses and hills next to your neighbours, all jumbled up. And everyone would be your neighbour. You would be coming and going. Walking as far as you wish, and still you would be home. Your life would be a collection of people, places, experiences, all kept in a jar. It would have no lid, so if it were to topple the contents would skitter across the floor, spreading out, a fluid that takes the shape of its container. It would spread atom-thin.More Like This
Late Evening, JulyYou and I, world I think we have the same heart;More Like This
I think that you've got the same crazy bits stuck
Right behind everything you're made of.
You've got the same contradiction as I do
And I think I've gotten muddled in exactly the same way.
It's the most beautiful muddling. The prettiest one
That you could have.
It's the wind over the dry grasses and the white pine
And the hills of sandstone and old men's dying farms.
And it's the late night drives into nowhere
And the look of the joyful befuddlement.
And I think, world, that you and I
And all the other muddled people out there
We'll get along all right. And maybe, I think we might,
If we're lucky and if the grasses flow just right in the breeze,
We can go down to the brook, world, and hold hands
And smile quietly and watch the geese
And smell the sweet rain over the rivers.