Each darting mind, falcon or bald eagle,
waits, watches, working with time.
We are patient and more patient protectors
waiting for our sight to heal.
The injured wildlife perches on a new kind of psychoanalysis.
Our places, our enclosures, are not cages.
They are homes where our backs have stopped being turned.
Even the couch has knotholes.
Recovery becomes mutual in the heat of association.
The partners face each other.
It is a hot day.
Carl Jung wipes the sweat from his brow with a cloth.
He is farming potatoes dirty with the grubs of freedom.
"Stop," he hollers to you.
"I found these five potatoes in your unconscious."
He hands the cloth to you.
You wipe memories into the wings of your need.
You turn back toward the garden.
He hands you a burlap bag.
The sun slanting through the dormers
multiplies the stairs as I climb and carry the potatoes
back to the attic.
The root of sleep is in these five potatoes.
Fifty eyes flash below in the basement of my reserve.
Our talk, like the falcon, dives two hundred feet at a time.
I fight the feeling of living on an island.
The house, left open, exposes a mind.
The dirt on the floor is interpreted in different ways.
The redundancy of spring cleaning
grows powerful in the land of make believe.
It is humorous downstream from the shock of recognition.
Memory is best arranged in a house,
maybe a city, always a diamond.
I am obedient to the pressure of punctuation.
History begins to give me only a slight headache.
I wonder when you too
will notice the gravel in the margins.
I rake the gravel into families of roads.
Their reunion is the sweetest thing in Zen.