To be is to be perceived.
— Bishop George Berkeley
- REMOVING THE BANDAGES
A canopy of white guy-wires
sweeps skyward as we cross the new Bay Bridge
into San Francisco.
I cannot see the Ferry Plaza,
the Transamerica Pyramid,
gray Embarcadero monoliths
reflecting stark afternoon light.
I listen to the rhythmic thrum of tires.
Instead of the cityscape, my brain creates
leafless winter trees
rising over open meadows
floating past the car window
highway to Tuscaloosa,
Alabama winter-green grass going brown.
I know this image is all wrong.
But the grass sways with the motion of the car.
- RETURNING HOME
Winding up the two-lane road
past the California landscape:
manzanita, bay, live oak and evergreen.
I remember leafy shadows, evening light
but I see the tall red brick tenements
stretching up 14th Street, NYC,
Lower East Side, 1970,
as far as my eye can see.
Where do they come from?
The buildings waver, remain following me
around the curve, over the creek.
As we drive on, the mirage
disappears in oncoming headlights.
I am learning to make friends with what I see.
Not what’s there.
- LETTING GO
“Take a look at this photograph.”
The page of the album turns
in a crisp November light,
colors swirling: red-brown, rose, white, grey.
No form, no shape.
“Isn’t she beautiful?”
“What am looking at?” I ask.
“Nate and Kelsey, at the altar,”
and the grey becomes my son’s suit
the rose-red a bridesmaid’s dress
and the sun gleams clear
through the redwood canopy.
