Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.
The Genius Thinks About Leaving
I’ve started taking longer vacations
hoping he does not forget to write
I leave often enough that he barely knows me
his amnesiac mouth forgetting the stiff fingers that feed him
Without me, he peeks unsteady around corners
afraid he entered the wrong room
like he’s a kid lost in a Walmart
Like I’m his mother
or a fucking GPS
He must learn how to write unsupervised
to remember the warm whiteness of paper
without my hand guiding the pen