The 200th anniversary of Jane Austen’s death plus one day (Written at her home in Chawton):

The trees are still strong.
Two centuries and a day,
And your mint’s still sweet.

The sheep graze in mist.
A thousand sweaters produced
Since you saw them last.

An afternoon in the Close,

The grass up high tickling my nose,

A group of girls in Victorian clothes,

And love is out with the wind,

Swimming through the dappled leaves

And picking at the heart’s strings

While sunlight drips into my being

With knowledge of the widest cracks.

I’ll close my eyes and count the stars,

The thoughts that push my mind so far

And into sunlit places and the dark;

I’ll dance between the worlds there.

All I have to do is coax them

To let the light in round the bend

Through stained glass windows dimmed,

To see the dancers under trees

Or shade bouncing off the graveyard stones

That mark the souls that made it home

After years of running to and fro,

And years of running to and fro.

My hair has grown much longer now

Than ever I have let it grow,

And through the strands a vision massed;

I’m standing on the waving grass

Near ancient castles and the sea.

Her wings in motion passing me.

A hundred years pressed into one

And down the line of summer’s sun

Like golden glass solidified,

They track the path beneath my eye.

I’ve come but close to loving birds

And find in them her whispered words,

Lightened feathers freely dancing,

Darkened streets where I am passing,

Storefront windows packed with glasses,

At all times to me she fastens.

And that girl you saw

At the subway station

And thought to speak to,

The one with the suitcase

And green sweater

Doing the dance of

Public spaces,

Looked so kind,

With her eyes

Bedded down in

A galactic cluster

Of freckles. A

Thirteen second

Symphony of

Heartbeats plays

The marching tune

I heard in Regent’s

Park while I stand

Two feet behind her.

I wonder if she’s

Ever been, my olive-

wool-and-stardust

Escalator companion,

In a gathering of

So many people that

You all begin to breathe in

On the same downbeat,

And out on the up.

I wonder if she’s

Even aware how many

Universes she has brought

Into existence.

There is a voice

In Piccadilly Circus

That gives a reason

For me to listen.

A sing-song tune

Unlike me and you,

Who only speak

To get to the end,

Riding the train

Of conversation

Without taking the time

To look out at the hills.

But anyways

This lady says

“It’s Canterb-ry,

Not Can-Ter-Bare-Y”

I say it wrong again.

She laughs at my accent

Which is by now an act,

Because I will keep

Mis-speaking the words

“Ed-And-Berg”

And “Ber-Oh”

To hear her sing

Until the morning

Takes a turn.

The things in life that share

A language are oftentimes

The best and worst.

The laughter singing from

Foreign sidewalks,

The jolly burst of mirth,

Is fuller of the human soul

And kindness overwhelming

All.

But on the other side of things,

In alleys ‘cross the way,

A somber song of shuddering

In tongues of flame above the head

Of alabaster dolls and a liaison of loss.

There is no wasted time,

As I found out today

While walking down a straightaway,

The sound of feet all rhyme

With every single breath

I let into my lungs.

A choir at my heels had sung

And filled me up with depth.

A man rode by and cursed

A woman walking by.

She stopped under a sign set high

And happ’ly reimbursed

Some of her favorite words,

Middle finger trembling,

And I heard the bike’s bell chiming,

Bathing anger in the mirth.

A bit of courage and keep your chin up.

We will conquer the world before we sup.

Round the curving face of China’s great wall

And through the climates of eternal fall.

We’ll snake through Brazilian jungles, low

And sign treaties in wooden bungalows.

Maybe stop for curry in New Delhi

And have our fill of both eye and belly.

Board again our men-of-war after lunch

And sail to North America on a hunch.

The world won’t believe us when we tell them

That we stole away this morning,

And we came back in the evening

With every flag wrapped wide from stern to stem.

While I am considering

The electronic accuracy

Of thoughts sent the length

Of two worlds in the time

It takes to remember

That you left the oven on,

You pulled a riverboat right through me.

Swans on the side,

And herons dreaming in the trees,

At the high tide of culmination

And rationalization

For the safety lines I cut.

The water will not soon recede,

Nor will we, like herons,

Find a good night’s sleep.

A golden plume

Of righteous Moon

And all her favorite stars.

Turn too soon,

The writer’s doom

Of losing what we are–

That moment’s gone.

My memory’s fond

Of chasing off all his favorite stars.