GLOAM

The October ground was still warm enough

at six this morning, so the cold front laid in

a fog thicker than yesterday’s when my road rose

above the blanket below the ridges on my way to work.

But right now, everything further than the barbed wire

is a mere suspicion. I am alone in a small space without

the sharp edges that cannot hide in the right-angled

building where I trade time for food.

There are things on my route I will have to keep in mind,

the patches of gravel on a newly paved stretch,

some potholes at either end they somehow missed…

know where the deer cross, how many in the herd,

watch for suicidal rabbits and birds.

On a motorcycle, you can pay attention

to details, keep an eye out for the nineteen

motley horses in that field on the right.

This morning, most are against the fence

and plain to see

in their painted pants and white socks.

Some, heads down, who eat the juicy grass,

seem stone cold frozen, as they fade

into the ghost of near distance.

If the universe is conscious, the universe

is God, and the mental matrix where we are

neuron and synapse in an entanglement of all things

great and small, hot and cold, ugly and beautiful,

then it is so you and I, two bodies of water,

could be poured into a single cup.