Life looks so digestible
drawn out on spread sheets
and calendar pages,

as if we were little
pac(hu)mans
strung along.

With ease
my hand flips pages
from November to December,
and to the other stretches of time
we have pinned to the page

our self-important pens
marking our self-important appointments.

I await the awakening of the weeks
as one awaits a monster rising
from a Sunday sleep;

Tomorrow, though we have named it,
is unnamable. In terror, I put my ear
to the sky, unable to hear

what might fall
my way.

Sailor, you cannot chart
the unbelievable map
of the waves, and Poet,
you cannot recite
the mystery verses
spoken by the guiding hand

as it leaves rainbows
on the tiles of your bathroom.

I forget that I am dealing with wild animals.
There is no reasoning with the snake
when he is coiling and ready to kill.
In the garden I watch the spiders
silking the aphids, the snarling dogs
cornering rabbit, sparrow, infant.
I hold the key to the gate and the hose
for the plants, but I feel as small as root,
powerless as worm, stepped upon
even as I seek to nourish them.

I am waiting for your meteor day.
It will rain rock and fire,
and you'll
just
know.

We'll wait, safe on the inside,
our bellies filled with glee,
our eyes with wonder

as we watch the burning mysteries
clunk to our planet.

Then we'll go out!
What a wide world of stones for you to gather!
You'll show me all you can find,
cupped palms overflowing

with sparking, sparkling
diamond words

sticking, set in their place
around your finger
and in your brain.

You will take them home.
And bring them back again.

I am building a ladder to meteor day.