S. R. Lavin

The essence of who I am,
my sword in my hand,
all the words like molecules
piercing my heart –
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The word “Hebrew” means “those who crossed over”….
the ones who sought to be separated from
those who did not cross over…the ones
who crossed over were seeking the meaning of life.
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If it were possible
I would crawl backwards
through time
on my face
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Glimpsing through the laurel and lilies
I catch sight of four women playing tennis
in the heat of a summer day.
The scene recalls to mind
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Home is a mountain
I do not live on.

My life burned to the ground
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The truck I’m in rumbles across the grand, rolling green hills
of Argylshire, New York.. Crossing a small bridge, below I see
mossy islands in the nape of the river. Everywhere are wild blossoms,
foxglove (I think) , in royal purple, which brings my wife back to me,
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Park Bench 101 is a course designed to explain and to cause the student to comprehend that God exists and is an ever-present Being, commencing with the formula: 1 to the minus thirteenth power, that is, .0000000000001 (the chance that “Life” exists) .

For a one-celled life form to spring to life (and here life is defined as 'a self-sustaining organism able to reproduce itself') two hundred separate but absolutely in specific order chemical events must occur. (Also, this does not account for nor explain where the material itself originates from.)
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In the field were fireflies, the meadow
sparkling in the darkness
like a Van Gogh painting (Starry Night)
where the desires of my heart
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The wind sweeping the land, of human history
and hope born of hope: this being as close as I can get
to Heaven, where stream and valley connect
and I feel that I belong here, that the meaning of life
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In Second Milo (New York) I remember
in complete detail my grandfather driving
the back roads of rural Massachusetts,
how we would stop in a glen and eat cherries
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Tim spent the day weeding in his father’s flower garden
(most days he washes dishes at the local college) .
My son, Matthew, driving west to Utah,
spent the night in Red Cloud, home to Willa Cather,
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Stopping on the bridge, just a short bike ride from town,
on a lonely stretch of new york highway -
where the marsh maps the land -
if you listen you hear
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I am, outermost, a man. Here
the subtle choreography
of solitude
on a lonely stretch of sand,
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Staring down into the clear water or
squinting through the dazzle of light,
it’s a bit lonely looking north to the town.
The air doesn’t get any fresher,
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Somehow we all grow up
(even though a little child
lives inside each of us) .
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Alone in a place where no one breathes
I sleep like stone carved from memory.

I’ve lost in myself what belongs to others.
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Where soul was eternal and memory from reality,
twenty years later I stop the little rented car I’m driving.
It’s late on a Saturday night,
it’s late in the history
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The best part of my day was fritted away
in the swamps of South Carolina –
I was vanquished by all my desires,
seeking to love what remains innocent,
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If you listen you hear
the chirping of songbirds,
and see the old life depicted
in the dilapidated sheds
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I went for a walk in the twilight along Cascadilla Creek,
as the shadows of darkness and the glimmer from the rushing stream
mingled with my emotions. I like to walk there.
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