Could Be

In Ventura, listening to live jazz?
Could be (I am now) in a brewery
In Santa Barbara; could be happy,
Could be tired. Could be listening
To the overcast as if it were music—
Which it is; listening to the flavor
Of a beer as if it were sharp, slightly
Fizzy music, which it is. Could be,
With a quick glance into the pram
As a couple rolls it past me, listening
To a baby’s scrunched-up, gently
Jostled sleep face as if it were music—
An old/new song called “Easy Quiet,”
Called “Nothing To Do” or “Saturday
Afternoon.” Tuning in to the chamber
Opera of conversation, improvisational
Solos played all at the same time and
Somehow synchronized: performers
I’ll never know, scattered at small tables,
Quartets, couples (hurdy-gurdy and oboe)
Working on intimate arrangements, casual,
Resonant, forgettable. Could be writing
This, listening to myself: inescapable
And mostly not beautiful—poet vocalist
Part genie in a bottle, part bumbling
Bee bzzt bzzt at the mysterious clear
Barrier, some shut window. Could be
Composing this for you, here, try these
Notes; could be (a ghost) listening to
Someone sounding it out, this air, years
From now. Could be there’s percussion
I couldn’t have imagined, the program
Should include the name of the dog
Who made (just at this moment) that brief
Snappy riff, staccato, of joking, pretend-
Fierce, remarks; luckily I was recording
An afternoon at the nearest place to get
A beer after my expensive hardware store
Visit (the failure to find recycled plastic
Garbage bags is music—where does it go, once
You’ve heard it?); the busboy changing out
The empty gas canister in the “Lava Heat”
Outdoor furnace is a cello, the waiter with
A tray of burgers, trombone: distribute
Instruments among the crowd however
You like; could be listening to this day,
Unrepeatable, as though I paid for it, as if
I waited years for this performance. What
An incredible seat I had, how (mostly)
Wonderful the acoustics—okay, lots of
Coughing and sneezing, and people trying
Out crinkly candy wrappers like toy pianos,
Ridiculous ringtones, hissed apologies, so
Many bitterly sour notes, but wasn’t I lucky
To be in the ensemble, anyway: to be able
To appreciate, sometimes shape, our ongoing
Song—earsplitting, then suddenly inaudible.

Maritime Forest (the Live Oaks)

Green trees greeting the storm’s start
What shapes you take reaching toward never
Touching one another in this stilled instant

Of ongoing dance I trace your lines to learn
How to venture from a central support
Rooted in and rising away from the earth

Because I need to know how to explore
This ocean air and grow always more open
Accepting what is while bearing

The heavy desire for what might yet
Come to be formed as we are by forces
Seen and unseen twisted by occult despairs

Lifted by encouragements confessed
As this body moves among other bodies
Let me do my absolute unremarkable best

Naturally as any other rough lichen-
Splashed fragile instance of life
Let me grow out from my heart

Like a ripple from a drop of rain
In a widening wood among my kind
A part of the forest celebrating

And mourning this lively peace
Of new and ancient growth let us
From rock-snared sand rise to anchor

That shifting stuff lifting a canopy
To shelter our loves on the edge
Of each barrier island exposed

To high waves and the hard
Rush of the wind’s salt