I
Sitting with myself for company, 
I wonder why I feel ostracized. 
The old bones itch where there's no scratching. 
It feels like flute music, light and airy,  
birthing in my marrow. It’s habitual, 
how we all resort to inner chatter. 
Still, I want the mountain to let me know 
what's stirring in the woods. 

				II
In baggy plaid swim-shorts, 
the ghost of Wallace Stevens 
lounges by the koi-pond, jowls to the sun. 
I love to picture him in workday garb,
composing in his head, chauffeured 
through the milds of Connecticut to the office,  
where he’d recite his brand-new poems entire 
for his secretary to transcribe. (Will that be all
for now, Mr. Stevens?)

					III
My father died in bed decades ago. 
With my silver grandpa beard and creaky knees, 
I sometimes still seek his permission, inside. 
Who-the-hell's my daddy, anyway? 

				IV
Magic stirring natatorium of words!   
Thorn bush guards the gate 
against the lions of despondency.

The door invites things in 
and keeps things out, 
where fear insists that everything, 
even spontaneity,  
needs rehearsal. 

An unseen jay in the piney woods 
calls me back, back, back. 

				V
That sculpture over there is new to me; 
I've always loved it. 
Count to ten, 
here I come, 
probably unready.