Wednesday, March 31, 1993

INVISIBLE LOGIC (villanelle)

In the canals of Amsterdam, dreams of wild swans
shatter the slow language of reflected edifices.
Invisible feet push the darkness toward the light.

I am caught between what I know to be true
and the existence of parallel lives afloat
in the canals of Amsterdam, dreams of wild swans.

What if we were living inside the dream
and time was a concept waiting to be born with
invisible feet to push the darkness toward the light?

What if you were dreaming me into being
inventing time to swim us through the canals
of Amsterdam in the dreams of wild swans?

What if the feathers loosened from sleep
drifted down from the moon’s edge with invisible feet
to push the darkness back toward the light?

And the beauty if it is we cannot prove whether or not we exist
in the Cartesian streets where the sound of bells takes flight
across the canals of Amsterdam and the dreams of wild swans
are invisible wings to push the darkness toward the night.

© Maureen Hurley, Spring 1993

Thursday, March 18, 1993



West of Pozzi Ranch the ticking clock
moves the ridges ever closer to the north
the move to freedom of the sea
fog rises as if dreams took shape on the horizon
the only sound of seals coughing
in the beyond of time
to think about the difference between meniscus and the horizon
is a matter of perspective
distance is attained by scale
we are but microbes in the petri dish
mitochondria searching for patterns
the fractaline structure endlessly repeated over & over
as if space bent down to sniff the newborn head of time
the beginning of creation and the beginning of time
and we develop theories to prove we exist

as if we needed more than our existence
the beyond, was Descartes the first to put it into words?
or merely the first to record it?
and so we sit in a room full of morning
the sleepiness of waking itself
to the existence of a new day

Bodega Bay



Sunlight pierces my eye
clouds slide off the backs of mountains
dreams take wing and circle our thoughts
like vultures in late summer—
Camphor, cedar chips
a hope chest of moths
white nights
the approaching solstice.
Big Dipper, full of rain
holds the universe
across angry day
with no plan at all.
The drought, broken like a bowl,
spills its bounty on the earth—
all this sadness falling from stars.

1st draf



How can you buy the freshness of the air
every shining pine needle holy in memory
of death in the country of birth
we are part of the perfumed body heat of the pony
He asks much of us
comfortably so that we will consider
this sacred land, the blood of our reflection
in the murmuring voice of the rivers
the stranger, the enemy, his father’s grave, forgotten,
sold like sheep, bright ways, different eyes
a savage place of insects’ wings
insulting the ears, arguments of frogs
the wind cleansed many days
air shares breath with the sacred taste of meadow flowers
brothers, savage, I’ve seen
I do not understand what is the loneliness of spirit
all things are connected
rich with the lives of our kin
this we know, all things are connected
we did not weave the web of life
the common destiny our god may not be owned
you shall shine brightly, that destiny, a mystery
the secret ripe hills
where is the end of living


In class CPITS writing, first draft