All week I’ve been asking myself:

What value is there

that some unnamed mind-layer

registers this nutmeg wind

these invisible hoof prints

on my living room floor

these rising storms

before they ever meet the horizon?

We’ve had 5,000 years of poetry

and the world is still getting worse.

I am not Atlas.

Maybe this is what Lady River meant

when she said I would become

an unknown cloud in the desert

being blown about by breezes

the world of man no longer even sees.

Have I reached the end of poetry?

Have I reached the trailhead of entering full-anonymity?


someone burn all my names in a fire by the river.

Since poetry comes to me from upriver anyway

perhaps it can just flow on

of its own accord,

unencumbered —

part of the tapestry.

Those who are listening for it in the first place

will receive it in their own way.

How’s that for non-attachment?

The wandering clouds and orphan-scholars talk about acceptance.

Perhaps I’m having my first real deep draught of it,

here, toward the end of the Anthropocene.

Thank you, O Precious Cup of Life.

I’ve had my fill tonight.

(c) 2019 Frank LaRue Owen /

sound: Today is Beautiful, We Have Things to Do / The Unfolding / Chequerboard
image: cup / sahil singh