Robert van Vliet
Everything
        what
               can be
said if not
        everything
               and the
simple trees and
the idea of
               the simple
        trees
January
Let me begin
               he said
        with this idea: that there can be
in what I can’t perceive
completely
               some beginning more than arbitrary
        a measured gratuity
                       to the improbable stars.
They suffer
        on the silent wind or
               sift
between the creaking branches
                       of the winter trees.
This morning sky still full of stars
        this sun
                       asleep
though bright. These
things indelible
               what of them? And
what of the cold:
        that it would not
                       be quite so cold
        or the earth
awaken? I cannot
        deny the winter
                       nor
ignore the measurelessness of
solitude.
               A word alone is not
        a word.
        And suppose
he said
               I were to leave
        the beginning
the idea
        of beginning. What’s left?
                       Only wheeling
tierless heavens trackless
        decades endless water.
The human dignities
               are walking
standing sitting
        reclining.
               These mysteries
                       when solved
lead on
        to other mysteries. We
are sun our glow
               is moon our heart’s
gryphon flashes. What is young
                       might always
        be so and so
we swirl.
        Add another guess
to each solution.
                       Nothing’s final.
Stories
Robert van Vliet lives in Minneapolis.
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Everything
        what
               can be
said if not
        everything
               and the
simple trees and
the idea of
               the simple
        trees
January
Let me begin
               he said
        with this idea: that there can be
in what I can’t perceive
completely
               some beginning more than arbitrary
        a measured gratuity
                       to the improbable stars.
They suffer
        on the silent wind or
               sift
between the creaking branches
                       of the winter trees.
This morning sky still full of stars
        this sun
                       asleep
though bright. These
things indelible
               what of them? And
what of the cold:
        that it would not
                       be quite so cold
        or the earth
awaken? I cannot
        deny the winter
                       nor
ignore the measurelessness of
solitude.
               A word alone is not
        a word.
        And suppose
he said
               I were to leave
        the beginning
the idea
        of beginning. What’s left?
                       Only wheeling
tierless heavens trackless
        decades endless water.
The human dignities
               are walking
standing sitting
        reclining.
               These mysteries
                       when solved
lead on
        to other mysteries. We
are sun our glow
               is moon our heart’s
gryphon flashes. What is young
                       might always
        be so and so
we swirl.
        Add another guess
to each solution.
                       Nothing’s final.
Stories
        Tell the child
stories from
               before
        it was born:
tears you
               shed
        for that long
dead dog
               are
        part of the
story, not
               part
        of the child.
Those stories
               are
        your life, but
to the
               child
        they're just stories
— and stories
               fade.
Robert van Vliet lives in Minneapolis.