Midwestern Ulysseys

feeling quiet, maybe it's the rain.

maybe it's the sun hidden.

the siren songless. I would say

morning is not bright without you,

but I am tried of using seasons

of the day to track you across the sky.

High up on mountain tops, bearing

down in samadhi, sometimes.

Bruised blackberry about the mouth,

kissed by ascension, wrapped up in

mala-rudraksha, lost in sandalwoods,

in my childhood winters; in the dark

center of the night you could hear

the trees crack their blood

like shotguns. When the light

is just right, the whole world is a prism.

I have been from one edge of my country

to the other. Still couldn't find your house.

I have been at it longer than Odysseus;

no weaving Penelope to delay me,

you should have put those lightning bugs,

jarred-up on the windowsill, see --

any kind of lantern would've helped.