We imagine ourselves
as wolves and owls, hawks
and lions, sharks and
deep-eyed jaguars;
they do not imagine
ever becoming one of us.

No animal
has ever had
a spirit human.
They are comfortable
as themselves.

Never see themselves
in pale hikers, secret lovers
naked and earthbound,
villagers in their encampments;
do not envy the accounting manager
fly fishing in a mountain stream,
dressed to the outdoor nines, failing
at every other cast.

We are selective as well
in hard to fathom ways:
we never say
I am the worm that endures in darkness,
I am the hard shelled crab that opens
to vulnerability often, yet survives,
I am the trout that escapes death
but hovers nearby after fleeing.

So hard to admit
we are not comfortable
beings, that we 
can rarely recognize
what we need
even when
it’s before us. 

I live my life amused
by those in love with
being in possession of
the backstage pass:

those smug with having
all access, familiarity,
easiness; those imagining 
it matters beyond the moment

the door opens
and everyone else
gets a glimpse and maybe
envies them for that time.

I live my life sorry
I cannot hand such passes
to everyone who longs for one:
my own world doesn’t 

qualify as worthy 
of such exclusive access.
If I could let you all in
to the places you want to be

I would. Some
privileges are worth using
and that I don’t have them
doesn’t make me think them

utterly unimportant. 
If I could break down those doors
I would and I would not take your 
place within, friend; I’d turn away

not in scorn but in humility,
happy to have served
and off to seek
another place to do the same. 

Tip of the spear:
redder than they are.

A spear doesn’t care
what it pokes or pierces

as long as its wielder
is happy to see red.

The spear in the hand 
of a true-blue hero

is just as happy
to poke its old handler

as it was when that villain
was grinning and sticking

whoever is
holding it now.

Someone is going to die
by spear and sword.

Stop hating the spear
and instead grab ahold

and take it
and use it and 

see how it shines. See how
you shine. You can beat it

into some other form
when you win

and if you lose,
you won’t need to. 

A figure can be seen
standing on the point of a cliff
with its arms outstretched to either side.

If it is planning to jump
it would do well to do so soon
as already would-be rescuers 
are scrambling up the paths
to stop it.

The figure may instead be preparing
to fly, but no one can be sure
until they are close enough to see
what flex is in play,
how the knees
are set for movement,
whether or not
there are feathers or webs along the arms
to facilitate flight. 

The figure may of course
be planning to do
none of the above, is just
standing there.

But that’s not good enough for us.

Down here we exist
immersed in a churning need
to assign meaning 
to unfamiliar sights.

To treat them
as omens, to create a need
to interact 
with sights and sounds we misunderstand
in such ways
that we can tell ourselves,
with great conviction,

that we are critical
to maintaining reality. 

They unfolded
their copper wings.

Blue gems
threaded throughout.

Daylight against 
dark-polished amber.

Until now you did not remember 
that you’d seen them before
your birth, had stopped believing
they had ever existed.

Did you ever imagine
they would still be like this,
that they would again appear to you —
lowly you, humble you — 
in such sunset-wreathed glory?

Now they are here
for the moment and if no one
believes you tomorrow
you will again doubt yourself;
as many times 
as it has happened,
rediscovery will be
a new blessing each time. 

Too far out from the dock now
to think there’s safety
to be gained by turning back.

Forward, drop anchor, or founder:
those seem to be the only choices.
Go on toward the horizon or stop

and wait for rescue, or stop
and sink right here and see
who notices, if anyone does. 

Or — we could turn back. 
It’s no safer but it’s movement
and we’d know what’s waiting for us

where we’d be headed. Can still just see
the grey line of coastal hills
back there, where there’s everything

we’ve left behind. No real comfort there, 
if you are asking; you shouldn’t need
to ask. We could remake it, you plead.

Sure, we could. But there’s all this ocean
to ponder. And what’s that ahead of us
rising out of the water? We should wait and see

lest we choose too rashly. Everything
we’ve chosen to this point has been
reckless. Prudence now, even if it drowns us,

would suggest a pause. At any rate
I’m not sure we can turn back. The wind
is shifting. There may be a storm coming. 

We have come so far. We have nothing
back there that won’t keep or be passed on
to better folks if we do not return. 

Whatever is rising ahead of us
is breaking the surface. We should at least
see what it is before making a choice. 

On this day in history
a perfect person was killed
who should have lived longer.

A perfect person died in childbirth;
the perfect baby she bore 
died even before she did.

Think of all the perfect people
who never grew old. Ones
you knew, ones you’ve only heard of,

and ones whose existence 
means nothing to you still
as you march on into your own twilight.

Do you matter as much as they did
for the short time they were here?
How could you know?