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Frank Horne
My little stone
Sinks quickly
Into the bosom of this deep, dark pool
Of oblivion ...
I have troubled its breast but little
Yet those far shores
That knew me not
Will feel the fleeting, furtive kiss
Of my tiny concentric ripples....
It’s not that you’re chasing a white moth through the forest; it’s just that she happens to be flying ahead of you, right? It’s just that things come to you when you’re walking. And you to them.
An ephemeral forest pool, fed by spring rains. Here at the top of the watershed the rain doesn’t quite know where to go, so it sits for a while. Ripples on the surface show how any point can be the center of an expanding universe. I love watching them intersect and cancel each other out.
song dogs
on the trail of some
ripe panic
LCD screen:
when I touch her face
there’s a ripple
Ripples at sluice gate.
Moments course residue.
Barges loiter in sparkles.
Crack – promontory jitters.
Gashed-black scalp refluxes
Distressing you to a whimper.
Not ever to let it be
i think of silverfish
skittering across a pond
ripples
sky and trees
but not disturbing them
as when it struck you
it struck me
the mind mirrored world
a way out of unhappiness
not happy
as one might say: I'm
so happy. but a depth
to hold
the various possibilities
your face, mine