In the left hand drawer
of the old desk, 
a huddled pack
of long-missing
stars.

In a box
at the back of the drawer,
a mussel shell clattering.

Inside the shell, a book.

In the book, lightning.

The book’s
pages have fused.
The lightning
has burned the box.
The shell is cracked, fragile
but sound.  The stars
cluster and shudder.

I don’t question
the homing instinct
of such things,
why they’ve found my drawer
to be such a hospitable place
to survive. 

This book
may explain it.

I’ll carefully work its pages apart
to see what can be read of its tales of exile
and closely watched wars, its stories
of unspoken vows, and the reason
the stars fled here.

It is a translation
from smoke, fracture, and fire.

This is just the work
the desk was made for.

Tags: poems, poetry, meditations

When you hear
a disembodied voice say
“yes,” it is best not to ask
who is speaking,

especially if you are in bed
after midnight and
the fatigue of your own questioning
is what sent you to bed;

if you awaken to
that “yes”
try to stay awake and think over
all the questions you were asking
earlier. 

Try to decide
where that affirmative belongs
before beginning to question
the source of the affirmation;

if you choose well,
you’ll know at once what to call
the Voice.

If you choose poorly
it will hardly matter
what you call it
as you curse it,
slander it, revile it;

you’ll never listen to it again
nor will you call to it
on those exhausted nights
full of inquiry,

so you will have no need
of its name.