Fiction

I want to be a character in fiction,
So that while I might doubt, hesitate, and commit mistakes,
It'd be assured that I've a place in a world:
My life and acts and words would have a point.
I'd be connected to other figures in the plot;
My presence and disappearances could be traced.

I want to be a character in fiction,
So I can be sure even of the error of my deeds and convictions:
I'd be a useful spec in a world beyond me
--No need to be the protagonist or the formidable villain,
I'd be my own person, quite apart from the lot of them
--And it'd be possible to pop in and out of a life, mysteriously.

Impressions of a summer long gone

You are one with the grass

It teases, tickles, and pricks 

It bears the scent of the sun

Little people are giggling in delight

Forgetful of being--seriously at play

Reaching for bars and balls and bottles and bare arms

The taller ones slink off together, whispering their truths

Couples amble past in no apparent hurry

Confident as the day: gay, bright, faithful

Girls in Grecian dresses float by on bikes

Elusive oracles: they’re here, then they’re gone

Some lie in the shadow of Cedar-like trees

Keeping warmth alongside their lovers

Why are they so hopelessly far away?

You are there lying on your bulging belly

Deciphering your notes, scribbling on the margins

Squinting at the sun, feeling the ache in your bones

Distracted by every gesture, every laugh

Loving and envying them all--making this

For you are one, intimate, with the grass