There is an intimacy
in walking together
nearly lost in this modern age.
The slow swing of one
step after another
the thud of boot on rock
the rush of the water companion
the swish of canvas
packs and pants up the path.

We walk up and talk of the city
until the quiet crunch of pine needles
the hush of rubbing branches
the distant call of camp robber, grey jay
begins to calm, to soothe, to remind.

We walk down under thunder
patted by rain
talk now about choices
life directions
unintended and unexpected.
We stop to watch the elk
separated from our sight
by the line of lodgepole pine.

We walk. We
think. We walk again.

Your long legs
at ease on the path,
we pass the horses
then the droppings of horses
and prints of horses.
We do not pass the memory of horses.

And so it is that I am
at the Wall. Ha Kotel.
The old cold stone beneath my hand,
alive with the prayers of a million living
Jews and six million and more no
longer living. Alive
with the breath of God.
And so it is that I am called,
called, called home and
home again to where the stone grows
warm against my forehead though
it is December and we wear wool
against the cold.
Called back through my soul
through the souls of the ones before
all of us in Egypt
all of us at Sinai
all of us
in the heart of God.
I lean on the Wall and God
holds me. I lean on the Wall and God
breathes with me.
The day falls away and I
stand in the wind on Masada.
Desert fortress
besieged by Rome
for over a year then
breached by ramp
to the death of all but a single
witness and child.
Never again.
Not just never forget, but
never again .

Would you rather
the sweet snap of apples
or the acid bite and glorious laugh
of cranberries?

And what of quiet, compliant
lush peaches?

We will walk it back from the bright roar of water
from the turmoil the cataract the whirlpool the rapids
we will quite suddenly understand form and boundary
go where the rocks slant
a lapsed and collapsed bank of the river
hauntingly brutal and beautiful

We will walk it back from the time
of poked-out eyes
and bloody crushed crusaded bodies
bits and bones tossed over the bridge

We will walk it back from where the flame sinks
over the conquerors and the conquered alike
where G-d is absent
and no one can survive a week
much less a lifetime

We will walk it back to avoid the reckless the pointless
with our nervous and nerveless mouths
without saying a word
we will ask our partners for forgiveness
we will remember they have other things to do
we will listen carefully if they speak
leave them alone when they sleep
let the silence spill

As the day goes dim and the old wander home
we will lie on our backs in twilight
listen to the melody of the Solomon Islands and Ukraine
walk it back under thick columns and piers
green with slime black and discolored
with mold and oil and the breaking of hearts

for Radha Marcum

alive & alight with the elation & gladness of living
remind her
milk thistle is not milk
brain imaging scans of living dinosaurs are still a myth
September rain falls on the crying & the flying alike
fishes school & glitter like snowfall
steam rises
there is an up staircase in the flame

Remind her while she is young
          – but not too young please –
to handle herself with care
to eat ice cream on Sunday
to not step on a wind-up beetle
to not hold the weathervane in a high wind
lest she go Dorothy-to-Oz
or call down the lightning

Remind her that each seismic shift has its own quirks
that may take weeks to decipher
to not be resentful if bitten by fleas bedbugs mosquitos
but to pay more attention
to the passageways too small for a person
remind her how to know
that small rabbits are not stupid but are rightly afraid
that we all breathe & sigh breathe & sigh
& that we all fear what comes down from the mountain

Remind her to know the difference
between the youngest & the quietest
as they are not the same
remind her to not take a direct path home from the cemetery
lest the demons follow her there
to whistle in the dark but not past that graveyard & not indoors
lest the Chinese legend of bad luck & exploding stoves
be true

Remind her to open the black door in the morning
stir the ashes of pine curled into bracelets
manacles fetters shackles
drop them to dust

Remind her
then lie on the kitchen floor while the night comes
listen to her sing

for Jessica Roeder

Consider the complex histories of
granite & marble
bronze & steel
swirling & circling just out of sight
unfazed     graceful     awaiting rediscovery

Consider an attack angle of 20 degrees
spin rate sufficient for gyroscopic stabilization
wonder if corruption comes
from the theories of hydrodynamics
stone essentially solid & substantial
somehow becoming softer

Consider an effort to find personal accord
with the indigenous stones
whether newly fallen from stars
or risen from the ashes

Consider selenology
& that the distance to the moon grows
by 1.49 inches each year
that stone isn’t naturally malleable & yet

Consider each person you love
placed lengthwise on their most stable side
just touching the next generation in lines of seven
the configuration not symmetrical

Consider the lake in the woods
trees bowing down over the water
your own head down as if in prayer
wonder might the stones steal autonomy
ride through the town with pitchforks & torches

Consider how history repeats itself
danger & deathblow
each stone the size of your palm
& as flat as infinite lines
not curving     not touching
Is anyone safe?

Consider the biomechanical methods to make power
how you like to understand the forces
distance     finesse     strength
& archaic lifeforms
transformed under geological pressure

Consider sailors
throwing buckets of water overboard
to prevent their ship from sinking
consider      the geometry of the water
the geometry of the boat the geometry of time

Take your tap shoes outside
practice on a piece of plywood
inside you set off the rabbit
who thinks you’re announcing the apocalypse