To John Clare From the Twenty-First Century

Somewhere between the avenues
And alleys of your childhood

You’ll find yourself. Ah,
Scratch that. The way you keep

Living after death makes more
Sense held up to the light. Make

It more sentimental past the point
Of recognition. Eventually all

Feelings blur with sap and gasoline.

Self-Portrait at Forty-One

Through a blank slate of feelings,
I ran miles wondering if it rained
or if it was dew when I stepped
out to light this morning. How
to know when I’ll feel like my
old self or maybe life’s just a new
click of urge and want, the buzz
of an airplane I saw and a stalk
of bamboo split near some
graffiti unreadable. I’d like
to remember today
even though it feels pretty
ordinary. Some purple patch
of wildflowers. The mystery
of everything sudden.