I Don't Know

how to sew sails
though
           wind and water combine
           to fill
the space I left off traveling for standing still

why some people
           — I mean —
how the boat stays upright

how to say "this is it"
           or why
I'm sitting
here not
anywhere else
         (or not running for a train)

how large a radius exists drawing
         close horizons
or how the ratio of time together
         to time apart
compares with
           the last dime
                   whether it was spent on getting home

if other people dream how information
            flows
                  in and out
windows on 42nd street
            and people
keep talking in order to stay alive
           inside every bird one fact beats
                     a separate heart
the pigeon with one leg is the height
                     in feet of
the Chrysler building

how subtly the past catches
                     up with a
person and
if long ago acts
           keep your doors locked at night

and how a person finds
                       rest
and if it's necessary

and where the sense went when it
                       left you
and how much we can save

 (and also
where you are)




first day of spring

a turning
that pattern which somehow is
                               "the way it is"
       23.5 degrees off
       plane of orbit

an ellipse
the round about way
to turn and return

still
    it's the first day of spring and
                                       I have
    no crops to plant no resurrection but life
    itself which rises everyday and doesn't
                need a nail
    a winding cloth the stone                                 pushed aside

it's like a last thing waiting to be said or
the last in line the way I am the
last to arrive    back again    at the starting point             and every

year this route around the sun what
steadiness steadies us                                   act out season
                   repetition

    the forsythia blooms and I was young
    the way the bush it was so big spilling over                out of place
                 outrageous            me             embarrassed
    such irrefutable visibility                                  flush with life

                                                      but later
                                      on the Jersey Turnpike
years later in a friend's car                    how I was surprised
    he was still my friend     him noticing
    the way New Jersey
smells       not bad        but like forsythia
blooming by the highway
                                          a yellow streak

highlights for the underbrush          along
    the fields and at the front gate
    the brick laid path                                how warm it seemed
              some one had taken the heart
of the matter and fit its pieces together
    into a way to cross                                   a yard enter

through an archway
mount the porch in one stride                            and peer inside

still it was that smell that brought him back
                                                                 that and
    his wheels
    I never would have thought it could have been so easy going
                                                               home
                                                                         being glad to go

Ekleksographia #2

July, 2009

Poems

Maya Funaro

Maya Funaro's poetry has appeared in Ology and her chapbook Setting in Motion is forthcoming from Fox Point Press. She is the recipient of several poetry prizes including the Mary M. Fay Award in Poetry. She has studied printmaking, bookbinding and letterpress printing in Providence, Bologna and New York and recently completed her MFA in poetry at Hunter College. She is a native of Southern New Jersey and currently lives in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, next door to Yucky the Cat.