Meanwhile, as our kiss continues

on the balcony of the Museum of the Future,

I feel honey swirl in my loins

(oh, thick golden nurture! ah, happy bees!)

and every tree for 500 miles deepens its green,

cones open, pods split and spill,

plum saplings bow to the rising storm

and a majestic old sugar pine rocks on its roots–

and then the balcony tears loose

and we’re falling, still in each other’s arms, falling…

And no, it hasn’t all been a romp through the buttercups,

but after 30 years more or less shared,

of catch-as-catch-can, itch and scratch,

four-lane all-night fliers that left us dirty side up

in the ditch,

of handing our asses to the gods above

while digging our toes in the earth,

I’d say we’re still falling,

falling in love.

Falling into Place

It astounds and delights me

on a planet with a 24,000-mile circumference

and a surface area of 96,000,000 square miles

to be here

at 2,000 feet in the Klamath Mountains

on the long wild ridge separating

the Middle and South Forks of the Smith

in a tight, dry cabin

on a freezing, moonless November night

snuggled down on the couch

by the wood heater

with my sweetheart

and our child.

Play-By-Play

Playing Wiffle ball near dusk

with Jason, just turned six,

soft summer evening

deep in the hills,

I serve to pitch and announce:

“Here it is, a three-one fastball

to young Jason Dodge,

and–on my god–he turns on it,

deep drive, dead center,

way back, absolutely crushed,

a white speck vanishing over the garden fence,

long gone

like a turkey through the corn–

so far outa here

they’ll have to send out a search party.”

And folks, that’s the thrill

of turning one around,

of getting it all,

dead mortal solid on the sweet spot,

riding the bolt

of power into flight.

Jason, so pleased

he’s about to burst out of himself,

says, “Go get the ball.

There’s still plenty of light.”

Job Application

I want to lie on an open hillside

and feel everything

quicken in the light.

I don’t want to think, judge, decide.

It’s been a tough winter.

Vicky’s father died in November.

A month later, I found

my brother dead

in his Klamath cabin.

Then a month of rain,

flooding, slides.

Down in the frost-seared garden,

ravens perched on the scarecrow.

I want to flop down on a grassy hillside

and let it all rise on the heat.

Give myself utterly to the flourishing.

Bury my face in the massed poppies;

turn my face to the sky.

If I must work, may the task

match my flagging power

and meet my true ambition:

to feel the roots dig deeper

while I imagine

new colors for a flower.

The Mouth of the River

Closing her eyes to intensify the sensation

she touches a warm stone to her cheek.

He’s moved so completely