running in the same place
Another one of those times
(racing the wind)
when I wind up on that hill
(tying my shoes)
sitting still as can be
(breathing slower)
glaring out at the night
(feeling a whistle form)
with my two bright eyes
(a call out to the darkness)
I know this is a point
(and I waver)
that I come to
(staring up at the backlit steeple)
It is not one of these elements
(the sky, I watch as it disappears)
it isn’t the rumble of the train
(I feel the rain melting to me)
People say I try to prove things
(to them, to myself)
that I do it for that rush
(and no other reason)
but I know it’s because
(I know it, I know it)
reducing me to one
(in turn leaves me many)
I can build off that
(it’s not a question of proving)
I know when times get rough
(whether life keeps going)
it’s not a question of can or can’t
(it just goes)
When they tell me I have no choice
(this is what I do)
I reach my hands out
(here at the bottom)
and touch these wet leaves
(with widespread hands)
Because it isn’t that streetlight
(it could be the rain)
it isn’t that red beacon
(or the black silhouette of trees)
it isn’t even that school
(or those steps in back)
not even the combination
(of lost, lonely elements)
can make me feel, see, hurt, breathe
(making that pain escape)
Any of these could be gone tomorrow
(maybe I won’t have to come here again)
this short spontaneity
(while lives go on)
brings me here, now
(what I want to do, what I do)
clutching wet leaves in both hands
Will It
Will it change the world
to remember
—-reflected spray on the inside of a plastic cup full of ice as ginger ale pours in at an angle
—-feeling soothed by spices, as if, packaged and sent out just for consumption, a person were embodied in a thin cookie, woven with years of memory, comfort, and stitched afghans wrapped in gold bows, and
—–whatever it means
——————love
—-a mountain shadow meaning anything from silver to Silverado, tough and smooth or a type of cloak
—-feet kissing ground between jaunts into the air
—-gulping water like kissing it
Will it make anyone better?
Will it
do
heidi kasa writes poetry and fiction. Her artist poetry book “Seaweed” was sold in City Lights bookstore on a shelf facing her favorite international authors’ books.