WEBVTT

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This one's called,
"All The Lies Buried."

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Against the streetlight,
great flakes of snow.

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Look like little sheets of paper
tumbling from the Midnight Sky.

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I catch several on my
glove, turn them over,

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blank on both sides.

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How am I to continue
with messages like these?

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As I walk down the
street to the ocean,

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I think of all the lies
buried by the falling snow.

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The pile of firewood that
never reached the barn.

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Last summer's carrots
still in the garden.

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And those harsh words I said
tonight about separation

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and the loss of love I see them
now, little irregular lumps.

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And whatever hopes you
had, my wife, they're

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out here too, those
cold unweighables

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buried deeper and deeper.

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And the baby, our
son who follows us

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around the house saying
be happy, those words

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are out here someplace.

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It's all out here.

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Every key, knife,
and coin I ever lost,

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every domestic ambition, every
little household improvement I

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put back on the shelf.

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At the ocean's edge black water
laps against a border of ice,

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white flakes hit the
surface and disappear.

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I remember one summer a
small bird with red beak

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and red eyes running
along the surf.

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When the water retreated
the bird hurried to the edge

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dug a little then ran back
as the waves returned.

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I watched it make its
way down the beach,

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always was working that thin
line between sand and water.

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Sometimes a wave
rushed in too fast

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swamping the bird, which then
shook itself and continued.

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And I liked that, liked how
the bird kept to the very edge.

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I even thought that's the
work I want for myself.

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As if that line
with the division

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between world and soul, the
place where life itself lies

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hidden.

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But tonight I think, isn't
it living at the edge

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that makes the trouble?

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Never getting comfortable
or taking anything for

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granted, never
trusting anything.

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Across the Bay I
see the glimmerings

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of house lights, no bigger
or brighter than stars.

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Are those the cold
lights of reason,

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or the constant
glimmerings of fear?

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I feel surrounded by
messages I don't understand.

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Better to let them go
and try forgetting.

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Better to say there are no
messages that those lights are

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no more than people
reading or watching the TV.

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Tomorrow they'll climb from bed
that their usual hour, trudge

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off to work, and the
whole mess will continue.

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And me too, I'll climb
from bed groggy with sleep

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and stand at the window
scratching my belly.

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Far out to sea, I may notice
a sail or flashing light,

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no telling what it's
doing or what it means.

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In between will be the huge and
rising waves that beat and beat

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this poor Earth yet leave
no help, no guidance,

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no lesson but confusion.

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What does the water
leave at the waves edge?

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Whatever it leaves the
waves then hammer it down,

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bury it deeper and
deeper under the sand

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as if the waves message, like
the message of Earth or snow,

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is simply burial.

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The brain's message to memory.

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The black dirt's
message to a corpse.

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[APPLAUSE]

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