i.

the red truck jounces on the dirt road-
and i, laying in the back, jounce with it.

trees hang over us, the red truck
and i.  they pass us by.

how simple, i think to myself and
the red truck.  how simple it is to
stare up into the moist sky,
knowing it will rain tonight,

and smile with the red truck,
carefree.

ii.

im not so sure anymore just
who i am-

the bear grass lillies wave up red cap road,
the snow falls beyond weitsipus,
and the klammath slips by sandy bar bank.

and i am waving as i fall,
slipping by,

and flowing.

iii.

he floats within me-
within my old red shell.
with every creaking pot hole,
he thumps.

i dont think about him-
or the road.
or anything.

but i am here,
resisting
his
fall.

iv.

two clouds passing,
one high,
one low.

grey is a rythym,
declaring movement.

far below,
shadows.

and he smells the ocean.

v.

eighty two
year old
tan oak
reaches
up and
out and
down and
in.

above,
wind pulls branches
this way and
that.

below,
roots slowly press
stones the size of cars
apart.

and
water
flows
up.

vi.

rising,
falling,
and rising again.

and falling again.

already i feel sleep
awakening within me and
wonder what damp
seed laid dormant there.

i dream sometimes
of a lightness that comes
of darkness.

and i dream of it returning home.

it's then that i see faces of
my gone ones around me,
smiling.

vii.

i am red truck,
and the road.

i am cloud and
tree and soil
and
water-
i pass myself by this way.

i am mostly darkness,
moving,
and turning.

i am red truck,
falling.

viii.

jack waits by the side of the
road.  his watch barely moves.

some when one else,
he arrives.

arriving, his watch
barely moves.

jack waits.

ix.

i love you.

she begins with the manzanita,
first to bloom and first to bare.
softly pink,
barely white,
her voice droops from her body,
hinting.

we are a darkened room,

in us, a window opens.
"who are we?" you ask

so we imagine a sailboat and
the pantry empties.

we sail and sail

as the moon sets in the west
in the east

and we,

embrace.