Harp

hands in my pockets
like the monks
I made images in the dark
as if underwater
my robes flow
behind me
raining or not though
I still ruin
my white leather slippers
I can cry
and move on
like this endless film reel
that clicks when it turns
following a crab on an
urban journey
I'm not used to so much extra
fishing by hook not net
totalling up the end of my
calendar I'm already
over the last square
said I was too square to
unsquare the squares
and the dream guru laughed
as a treat
for being myself
been harping on me
plucking my mood
in the mornings
trying to remember
that there's calendars
in boxes in storage
at Michael's
still blank

let them go
where they go
back home with
my particular ghosts
can you bless
something small
and robed

like Creeley
shocked by an old-
fashioned popcorn
bag in a clean
auditorium
thinking about
ancient audiences
applauding my meditation

-NC