H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g

N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n

RANDY ROARK

I Don’t Really Mind

Think that I care what is shouted in the street?

The world I was born into was small, weather-beaten,

a narrow road, a spent arrow inert and exhausted—

only I saw the crow settled on a black branch above us,

the uncontrollable river that hurtled past and abandoned us here,

the wind scattering hibiscus on the roadside,

the white moonflowers in the porchlight,

the waves distant and faintly white in the haze

cracking in the cold like clouds of blossoms

attached to nothing, my frozen shadow exciting at first

and then sad like the sun not yet down—

old earth and stone and smooth summer moss

still bearing flowers, arguing both paths at once,

the autumn river swollen, dangerous in spots

sheaths of ice at the river’s banks mixed with pebbles

brought down from above, the moon thinned to a thread

slight enough to fall from the sky into the tossing water,

painting its self-portrait in silver ribbons, how cold it is.

[From the author’s Seattle Notebooks, originally published in NHS 2006,http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs06/Roark.htm.]