2007-06-27T17:35:00.000-07:00

Four Haiku

Winter weather blows,
blankets branches. Angles melt.
In a cave, bears snore.

Blackberry bushes,
spirals of thorns. Green without,
dark within. Whispers.

Busy streets below
the balcony. A pigeon
guards our privacy.

Branches, ones broken
underfoot, look like branches
unbroken, once soot.

Education

Between a general
sense of complacency
and your own true self
there are, I’m willing to bet,
a number of schools.
In each of those schools
there was a greater number
of hallways, and in each
of those hallways
an even greater number
of rooms. In each
of those rooms there was
a still greater number
of desks, although you
can sit at only one.
With a book open
in front of you
and your head propped
up on one hand,
you sit there,
staring out a window,
as a distant,
shimmering sun
steadily sinks
down towards
a less distant,
disappearing
horizon.

Two Mechanics

Trudging up the hill towards
St. Bosco’s, I passed two men
wearing greasy coveralls
crouched over a motorcycle,
tinkering with the engine.
Both with beards, even biblical.
A fourth man striding downhill
stopped and made an offer,
laughed at by one of the beards.
Yer retarded! Git on outta here!
The wiser beard straightened up
as the buyer slowly ambled away,
and turned to his partner.
Are you crazy? Dumb?
An offer’s an offer,
and three hundred’s good money.
More than it’s worth.
You’ve got to think, man. Think!
I offered a hundred.

Ibis

Muttering All is Vanity,
you never knew even one man,
jealous of everyone,
hateful of yourself,
scorning even sanity
to nurse a self-inflicted wound
you would bitterly give again.
Your mother was a snake
that ate all her eggs
and voided you whole.
While chewing your own tail
You never stop to rest,
and you will never save yourself.
Shit lies coiled on a dinner plate,
your cup is full of piss,
the longer this goes on,
it can’t go on like this;
not by me, but by yourself cursed,
staking out your eternity in Hell,
worst coming to worst.

The Black Door

When I woke in the dark
the clock glowed a digital
twelve. Sweat from work
done all night was still

in the sheets, but voices
pulled me out of my room
and into the hall. A policeman pauses
for my mother’s sobs from

a stance beside her chair,
until she can ask,
‘Who could do this?’ I stare
at bones in the hands that mask

her face. Light comes
from the left, so I turn
to see my brother’s shadow, stones
in the floor, a funereal urn

in the foyer, and more light
in the open doorway, too strong
for our eyes adjusting to the sight.
From the awning a cat is hung

by the tail with its eyes gouged out.
My brother gapes. The air is colder.
A cry starts in his throat
as I hold his shoulder.

Celestrina

Near the side of a mountain
I captured a butterfly
with metallic wings
(shining, at any rate, like steel
in the midday sun)

by cupping it with my bare hands.
My outstretched arms
lengthened like shadows
until the edge of a wing cut my palm,
deepening my life line.

I had no choice but to let it go.

The Amateur Geometer

Circle, line, triangle and square,
with just enough to hold them there.

From brightest white to deepest purple,
square, triangle, line and circle.

Hourglass

By the window overlooking the backyard
my mother once kept an hourglass,
past which I could see her tending her garden
or mowing the lawn. From that green grass
to the composte dump all the clippings
were carried in an old bedsheet,
a globe borne as Atlas would,
with a silent wince.

I would watch in quiet contemplation,
thoughts rising in the silence indoors
above adventure stories of the great outdoors,
or a book about the great explorers.

I liked Colombus best,
since for a fortune in a far land
he looked for eastern shores by sailing west.
All that treasure for a Rennaissance king and his queen.
And my mom, now closer, backed by all that green,
smiling through her eyes while watching me doze,
holding silver sheers in one hand
and in the other a red rose.

The Wild Boar

Most of the time I had our home
to myself. Usually this meant
a girlfriend and a bottle of Beam
on the couch in the living room.
Once she wanted a bed, and sent
me ahead to mom’s room to wait.
She was late. Open the door, Fate.
Stood a boar, a joke, a dream…

The Visit

I went to my father’s just once,
in the evening, intending the visit
as a surprise. Under the cover
of darkness I knew I could turn back.
Looking in from the back deck
I saw his family, and through vents
I heard their happiness. I shiver:
a child points, asks, ‘What is it?’

The Streetsweeper

Like an enormous toy discarded
by a child, an orange streetsweeper
sat parked at the curb. Guarded
by no one, windows open, beeper
silent, lights off - but the key
was in the ignition. Easy to see
myself on a joyride. ‘Take it!’
I never even considered the ticket.

The Date

Setting the table for dinner,
I asked mom where to put the other
chair. ‘Opposite mine, naturally.’
Great. Lucky for him. What a guy.
I decided to leave and let my brother
finish. I hid in the bathroom. Fully
a mess, as usual, now compounded by
the stench of her date. What a winner.

The Nightgown

In my teens, traveling was the worst.
How well I remember that hotel
in the Berkshires, my version of hell.
After checking out, mom stayed in the car
taking care of my brother and sister,
while I spoke with the bellman. Missed her
nightgown, packing. Hangs down this far
(chopping my thigh). My self burst.

The Silver Chain

Green grass, silver chain,
a low, slate sky waiting to rain.
My Golden Retriever finishes her yawn,
sits up, and takes off like a shot
towards the far end of the lawn.
In one, long wave the fine mesh links
are played out until the line yanks taut.
The dog never learns. My heart sinks.

The Pilgrimage

Our caravan slogged through night,
the truck’s headlights shining
like torches. We walked. Guards
watched over us, their sight
backed up with guns, occasionally fired
to keep us awake. Not whining,
but nervous, we kept our peace
on the pilgrimage, no hope required.

The Opera House

I never saw the performance,
never even saw the dark and cavernous
auditorium within, where some vital
secret was finally revealed;
only the brightly lit lobby,
the red carpeting, and the stairway
crowded with people walking up,
walking down, cherishing intermission.

The Wall

The mountains guarding the edge
of the dessert grew higher
as we approached. Climbing a sheer
wall to the underside of a ledge,
I kept my bearings. Not in the shade,
where the ground overhead made a liar
out of the voice of courage, betrayed
from within by the dead weight of fear.

The Barge

That summer I worked a barge in
the North Pacific, a slow
ship heading into the margin
of another shore with no
freight but its own silent crew
working their lines in a fog
of weary expectation. Few
regard the captain, none agog.

Under the Overpass

Fifty feet above, the steady whir
of traffic and the slur of rubber
on asphalt sounds like a river.

On calm nights I can look down
at Lake Union and see the lights
of the city reflected in dark water.

No stars. Heaven here is I-5,
north to Canada, south to Mexico,
but below, as in an empty cathedral

filled with broken bottles,
random car parts, and old newspapers,
I lie here and breathe gas.

Some day these pillars will fall,
but listening to a river tonight
I’ll sleep well, under the overpass.

On the Word Dream

I In French

En Anglais, le mot pour ‘reve’ ...
There you stand on any wooden
tie in the middle of the track,
clickety clack, clickety clack
looking out at the horizon,
can’t turn around, can’t look back
knowing that never
will those two lines meet. Ever.

II On Spelling the Past Tense

Not dreamed, but dreamt,
Like slept and wept,
Or, a little better, meant.

The Rose

I know what everybody knows:
Where the rose grows,
There goes the nose.

Anthropoesis

The nude man is
mundane;

in nude women there are
nun, woe, and med.

Apart, an unwed omen,
together, we no em dun.

The Canal

Sigh.
There is, as a canal
running from one body
of water to another,
black as ink
and fully illuminated,
what flows between
self and other.
Cough.
I have finally found
what I have long been looking for,
in a room where a rusty nail
was driven through the roof
of my mouth and pain hung about
like bad wallpaper peeling
from ceiling to floor.
Never mind what meaning was lost
through all those annoying
lapses of grammar
and even more hateful homonyms -
here you and I
(wink, wink)
may finally understand
each other at last.
S.O.S.

Inkblots

I think of a dream to keep my mind on heaven,
In which you turn my gaze
up towards an inky infinity.
One evening we will sit amidst the stars,
counting every constellation we can name:
‘There, off to the right . . . Orion, the hunter.’
‘Pegasus. And Gemeni. The Big and Little Dippers.’
‘And Cassiopeia, the one with a missing star.’

Strange how a life can turn
on an embrace not lasting fifteen seconds,
while the stars are wheeled around Polaris.

If I talk with you at all,
I fumble every word in your presence,
frightened of your gravity, the distance,
and those heavenly stars.
Early one afternoon at the end of winter
you asked, ‘So what do you see
when you look at the clouds?’
Dumbstruck, I could only mumble, ‘Inkblots’.

The Flying Saucer

I saw it in my childhood,
on an overcast afternoon
at the home of our Catholic neighbors,
standing on a wooden bridge
leading to a front door
painted bright orange,
to the amazement of my family.

It came out of the air moving quickly,
quicker even than sight,
and I sensed that I saw it
only when it allowed itself to be seen.

I turned from the door,
and there it was before me,
hovering in silence,
observing and observed,
perhaps gathering information for some alien science,
or maybe just enjoying a chance encounter
in a wildlife preserved.
The motives are unknown to me still,
but there it is; still in its pregnant moment,
waiting for more than a banal headline.

Then it turned upwards,
as if to return to the sky.
In this new position, still hovering,
its rounded shape was clear,
although its underbelly remained strangely invisible;
whether formed in glass or highly polished metal,
on this obsidian surface
appeared a kind of video screen.
On which was shown that which had just been seen:
a young boy, standing on a wooden bridge,
looking into gray heaven,
his face itself an expression of pure fear.

Feeding the Horse

The walk from track to stable
isn’t long, or much trouble.
And nobody to carry.

He strides like a king
in procession to his simple
lodging. Try to stay clear
of his sideways stare.

If only he were Mr. Ed, he would speak to us.

An embroidered towel is draped
over his back. Another attendant
waits with his special plate,
Noritake porcelain, heaped

high with grapes. A bowl filled
with water is slipped
underneath his massive head. Spilled.

Ah, but the music of neighing! For that we’ll wait.

A Cap of Marten’s Hide
Iliad 10.313-464
Gratias tibi, Richard Lattimore

Along the shore almost every night
is colder than day, but on
this particular night an eerie chill
seemed to wait in the darkness,
invisible but for the steady betrayal
of steam rising from the shoulders
of soldiers speaking quietly among themselves.
Stay low. Take off anything made
of metal, or the moonlight will
mean your murder. Don’t whistle. Don’t
lose your head. When Hektor asked
for a volunteer to go spy
on the Argives' swift running ships,
I thought only of the swift
horses belonging to proud Akhilleus, prizes
now for my own swift feet.
I didn’t consider my five sisters,
nor did I consider the danger
still witnessed by piles of dead
bodies, or such truly fearsome Achaeans
as the powerful Diomedes and Odysseus.
So after grabbing my back-strung bow
I donned my own prized possessions,
the pelt of a grey wolf
and a cap of marten’s hide,
and set out eagerly to spy
on the enemy. I was running
through a clearing filled with corpses
when I heard the soft thudding
of feet coming up behind me
so soon I thought they had
to be Trojans coming to call
call me back. Hope lost, double-crossed,
and my worst fears were realized
when I saw men wearing helmets
and carrying spears closing in fast.
It was Tydeus’ son who finally
stopped me with one thrown spear.
I stood still as a statue,
hysterical, shivering with spasms of fear
by the time they grabbed me,
when I offered to pay them
anything just to be taken alive,
anything to keep from being killed.
Dark is the heart that denies
it is about to die, saluting
nothing but its own rank fear,
and I blamed Hektor for everthing
I'd taken upon myself, then deceived
myself by imagining that someone else
had tricked me with such rewards
as horses and chariots. Odysseus showed
me the folly in that, saying
Those are mighty gifts you long
for, difficult for any mortal man
to manage, except Akhilleus, then asking
me straightaway about Hektor, the shepherd
of his people. Where is he,
where are his horses, and where
are his people sleeping? As long
as I was alive I went
on speaking; as long as I
could speak, I thought I could
remain alive. I thought one deceiver
might understand another, or I thought
they might even wait to find
out that I’d told the truth.
Surely the truth must have some
value, and though I’d never understood
what it was worth before I
hoped to find it then. Diomedes
would have none of it, saying,
If, beaten down under my hands
you lose your life now, nevermore
will you be an affliction upon
the Argives - this even as I’d
just finished helping them, and so
I continued pleading with him, reaching
out as if in prayer, pleading
the way slaves beg masters. Everything
became its opposite - the stars shimmering
in the sky overhead were suddenly
like pepper scattered across white linen,
the tide behind Tydeides was turned,
and I had one final insight,
as close as I ever came
to self knowledge or answered prayer:
I am the words I speak,
these words flying out of my
mouth - and they were still flying
out when he took my head
off in one swift, clean slice.
My head rolled over twice before
my tongue stopped moving, and then
they took away my possessions, prized
by me no longer: the pelt
of a grey wolf, the great
back strung bow from my side,
and from my head, finally finished
rolling, my cap of marten’s hide.

Solitaire
For Stephen King

King of clubs, queen
of diamonds, then jack
of spades – opposite colors,

either suite. Aces up...
My teenage years are
hazy (drugs and booze),

but I still recall
my parents’ twentieth anniversary
like it was yesterday.

Half my age now.
It seems a dream,
a nightmare. Now everybody

wants to know how
wealthy my parents were,
as if that mattered

most. It did not.
Not most, anyway, but -
very. Very, very wealthy.

And bored to tears,
I think. Who isn’t,
these days? If I

try to understand myself –
boredom was a factor.
Anger. Money, no. Nothing

mattered by the time
I was through. There
was also a lack

of perspective confinement brings,
whether you want it
or not. And concentration.

Anyway, who, or maybe
what, am I? Son.
Mental. Murderer and Prisoner.

Patient. Some things I’ve
figured out, some things
I never will. It

began upstairs, with Mom.
The caterers were downstairs
in the dining room,

getting everything ready. Gifts
wrapped and ready for
Mom and Dad. Perfume

and a tie from
me - bought and picked
by Marie, the maid,

and James, Dad’s valet.
As bidden my Mom.
I never even saw

the bottle or the
tie. My sister, fifteen
(three years younger than

I), wanted to give
them something right then,
upstairs, before the party,

but mom was shooing
her off, then bickering
with Dad about it.

The guests haven’t arrived…
Sis was crying, then
Dad was pissed off,

and more. Yelled about
Mom being more concerned
about keeping up appearances,

besides so many secrets
to herself. Mom asked,
What about yours, pig?

Dad went fuming down
the hall; my sister
stopped crying and we

went downstairs together. Guests
started arriving, just when
Mom and Dad came

downstairs smiling their phony
smiles and then saying
all their phony greetings.

The party started with
food platters and cocktails
and everyone talking technology

and travel. There were
maybe two dozen guests
standing around the living

room and the foyer
when mom noticed Dad
chatting with Marie, standing

in the corner with
a silver platter: scallops
and bacon, I think.

Could you at least
leave her alone while
we’re having the party?

Dad, drunk, nodded once
and said, loudly, Well,
if you hadn’t gone

and fucked my partner,
Frank, who was standing
over by the fireplace

with his wife and
two other couples. Mantled
his drink and walked

towards the door while
everyone else looked at
the floor. Mom lost

it and started screaming
at Dad about ruining
the party. Then Dad

laughed, fake and dark
at the same time,
while a guest tried

to guide him away
by the arm. Dad
shook him off, then

yelled more at mom.
Mom threw her glass
at him, and when

it shattered against the
wall I heard something
else break inside me

at the same time.
Hit the stairs running,
and in seconds was

in the study, grabbing
the gun from Dad’s
desk drawer. Jumped down

the stairs and walked
into the party, where
people were holding Mom

and Dad apart. One
woman screamed when she
saw me, and I

shot her third, right
after mom and dad,
my arm straight as

an ax handle - shot
Dad in the chest,
and mom, too, who

crumpled into the arms
of everybody near. Then
I shot every man

I could. A few
women. Once I started
I couldn’t stop; I

wasn’t me. I wasn’t
anybody. Most guests made
it out the door,

but I was able
to empty the entire
magazine into the crowd.

Then I was alone.
Except the bodies. Twenty-
two, I was later

told. All that carnage,
silent. Then I heard
noises in the corner.

I found my sister,
groaning, and dialed 911.
Sat down and waited

on the front steps
until the police showed.
The medics were surprised

by all the bodies,
but I led them
to sis, still breathing.

Then came the cameras
and reporters, and lawyers,
and then the trial,

and then a few years
in a big jail.
I was pretty numb.

Quiet. Dead inside. Sis
never visited. Couldn’t really
blame her. How could

she? And what could
I do to make
up for the harm

I had done? Crying,
even hysterical, and thinking
about our Mother, dead,

I grabbed a shank
one morning and cut
my dick off, balls

and all. A lot
of blood. Flesh shredded
to ribbons. Me screaming

as loud as I
could on the toilet,
where they finally came

and found me. Strapped
down for hours, even
days at a time.

Sowed me up. Calmed
me down. A doctor
said I was insane,

finally, and a judge
agreed. I was transferred
to a prison hospital,

where I was shown
a computer for playing
games, and for typing

out poetry to share
with the other prisoner
patients on Sunday afternoons.

The words you read;
the game the nurses
taught me was solitaire.

Simple solitaire. Always alone,
never lonely. Entirely free.
I could play forever.

The Origin of Mythology

Like a dream

left lying in bed,

or the drop of blood

tht turned an ocean red,

Jesus healed the blind with mud,

from which he'd made sparrows, it would seem.

Emily Kafka

I found a friend in Hunger -
Side by side - we walk the day
To avoid an ancient Danger,
Who would turn us from our way -

To confound ourselves with food -
Another trick He'll try -
Right feeds on light - calls it good -
Night's plenitude - is why -

Skeeter

You wore a calico coat
throughout your long life,
a natural Sybarite from birth,
disdainful both of men
and fellow beast alike.

Relaxed on your right side
like an old bagpipe,
you surveyed the living room
for so long that carpeted
domain became your own Savannah.

In your old age I’d help
you up to those lofty vistas
formerly reached by leaping:
armchair, refrigerator, and once,
memorably, the living room emoir.

Up on my tip-toes, hand under
each haunch, I gently lifted
you up to your own private lair.
And was paid with a fart long
and strong enough to part my hair.

Channeling Ogden Nash

~ On the Infestation of My Plant by Thrips ~

On my desk I keep a flower
By which I while away an hour
Searching for thrips
(a tiny bug underneath
the leaf, with tiny, tiny teeth),
Delivering death with my fingertips.

~ On the New Seattle Public Library ~

The new Seattle Public Library
Has a lot of windows and is very
Airy. Too bad, that for all the books
And reading nooks,
The art exhibit is so scary.

~ On the Cop in Front of Me in Line at the Top Pot ~

This cop likes his coffee at the Top Pot,
It's made by a bit of a fop, hot.
A gal with nose rings and tattoos
Serves him donuts,
And the poor man can't lose
Any weight while he woos,
But if she were his daughter he'd go nuts.

Computer Portrait

Icon for pencil, icon for paint; clicking, dragging,
magnifying and shrinking with the insomniac’s
compulsion for perfection at the the pointless task...
after three hours I finally got your eyes right.
Blinking like commas, I felt them follow me
into bed as I lay next to you in the dawn light.
Not really art, but better than blank darkness.
On the following day I showed it to you, my own eyes
squinting in the afternoon sun. Even I preferred
your drawing of a cat; so much circular scribbling
seemed to be carefully sketched out of focus.
Pressed by procrastination, more conscious of work
you were avoiding than the animal you were drawing:
your cat, your conscience; the successful self portrait.

After Petronius

Nam nihil est quod non mortalibus afferat usum
(PLM B XXVI)

Nam nihil est quod non mortalibus afferat usum
rebus in adversis quae iacuere iuvant.
Sic rate demersa fulvum deponderat aurum,
remorum levitas naufraga membra vehit.
Cum sonuere tubae, iugulo stat divite ferum
barbaricum? tenuis praelia pannus habet.

For there is nothing
that may not serve
the needs of mortals,
and often in adversity
despised things help us.
So when a ship goes under
shining gold is sure to sink,
while a flimsy oar bears up
the shipwrecked body.
When the trumpets sound,
the savage's knife is drawn
at the rich man's throat,
and the poor man's rags
are a sign of safety.

Primus in orbe deos fecit timor
(PLM XXVII)

Primus in orbe deos fecit timor, ardua caelo
fulmina cum caderent discussaque moenia flammis
atque ictus flagraret Athos; mox Phoebus ab orta
lustrata devectus humo, Lunaeque senectus
et reparatus honos; hinc signa effua per orbem
et permutatis disiunctus mensibus annus.
Profecit vitium iamque error iussit inanis
agricolas primos Cereri dare messis honores,
palmitibus plenis Bacchum vincire, Palemque
pastorum gaudere manu; natat obrutus, omni
Neptunus demersus aqua; Pallasque tabernas
vindicat; et voti reus et qui vendidit orbem,
iam sibi quisque deos avido certamine fingit.

First, fear created gods in the world; from high heaven
lightning fell and the walls were torn down with flames,
and Athens, after being struck, burned. Soon Phoebus
sank into the earth, after blazing brightly from
his rising, and the Moon aged and renewed her glory;
from then on the stars were poured out across the universe,
and the year was divided into changing seasons.
The mistake spread, and soon vain superstition
encouraged farmers to give to Ceres the first fruits
of the harvest, to quell Bacchus with fruitful vines,
and for Pales to rejoice in the handwork of the shepherd.
Neptune swims in secret, submerged entirely in water,
Pallas watches over shops, and both he who is bound
by prayer and he who betrays the world for money
now fight eagerly to fashion new gods for themselves.

Iam nunc algentes autumnus fecerat umbras
(PLM B XXXVIII)

Iam nunc algentes autumnus fecerat umbras
atque hiemem tepidis spectabat Phoebus habenis,
iam platanus iactare comas, iam coeperat uvas
adnumerare suas defecto palmite vitis:
ante oculos stabat quidquid promiserat annus.

Autumn had already brought its cool shadows,
Phoebus was looking toward winter with slackened reins;
already the plane tree had begun shedding leaves
and counting her grapes on withered vines:
All the year had promised was standing before our eyes.

Ego et Ego
after Bob Dylan

Tantum tempus temporis
quoniam aliena femina
in meo cubiculo dormivit;
ecce illi quantum dulce somnus est
quanta etiam libera somnia sunt
In alia aetate mundum certe rexit
vel optimo regi qui iuxtus flumen
psalmos luce lunae scripsit
in matrimonio fideliter ducta est.

Ego et ego
In creatione quo ingenium alicuius
nec alicui ignoscit nec excolit.
Ego et ego
unus alteri dicit
nullus et videre imaginem meum et vivere possit.

Puto me iri foras egressum et spatiatum
Nihil occurit hic, nihil umquam fit.
Praeterea si incedat iam volat me narrare;
habeo nihil, praecipue erga quicquid erat.

Viam cepi aviam
qua celeres non superant;
dignis praemia sunt
qui verbum veritatis distinguere possunt.
Hospes solus me docere potuit
praeclaram orem iustitiae contemplari
et videre oculum pro oculo, et dentem pro dente.

Nisi duo homines in mansionem,
Est nullus in viso;
Verem exspectant,
proinde quasi ver plaustro accederet.
Mundus deleretur ea nocte
sed meae amicae aequum esset
illa meo cubiculo dormiret cum revenirem.

Meridiano me promoveo
adhuc in obscura parte viae;
in angustos corruere
et constans manere non possum.
Alius mea ore dicit
sed solum meo animo audit,
calcas omnibus etiam tibi feci
quibus tamen careo.

Ego et ego
In creatione quo ingenium alicuius
nec alicui ignoscit nec excolit.
Ego et ego
unus alteri dicit
nullus et videre imaginem meum et vivere possit.

Eavesdropping

A woman sobbing
in the corner of the room
glanced (furtively)
from hunched shoulders,
hid her tears again,
and whispered into a phone,
I'm addicted to sadness,
a remark so insightful
I hope it originated
from some hidden store
of happiness.

After an Afternoon Party

After an afternoon party
I wandered off with a woman
in her late forties
or early fifties
selling real estate
at the opening of a new tower.
We stood in the shadows
of high rise buildings
near the water
as she pointed out
some of the amenities
that came with living
in such a beautiful location.
The sidewalk lined with stores
reminded me of a concourse
surrounding around a stadium.
Since it was chilly
in the shade of the building,
we walked out towards the Sound
and into the failing light
of the late afternoon.
From our vantage point
we were able to look back
at the shops and restaurants
below the tremendous complex.
There it wouldn’t be difficult
to find something to eat.
My beautiful guide asked
if I was interested in living
in a place like this.
I briefly wondered
how she’d come to think
I could afford living
in a place like that.
I looked straight into the sky
to see just how high our edifice rose.
I found the vanishing point,
imagined living there,
and said, Sure.

Rubato

We were scaling Mount Si
when a cloud rolled in so thick
we had to wipe the mist from our faces.
Our shadows, already growing longer,
disappeared entirely
and the time we measured
by the burning in our legs
and the shortness of our breath
seemed to go with them.
Light no longer came just from above,
it was all around us, equally,
and it was then that I thought part of us
would never return and that moment
would never end, when you gasped
and whispered, Look,
your arm outstretched,
and there floating out of the fog
was a ghost, and then a shadow,
and finally stepping onto the rocks
as new as creation itself,
a beautiful, white ram.

Viewing the Islands

Day after day is shrouded
in gray and the waves
of the water seem whittled
out of green wood.

The islands look moored
at dawn, and the beach walkers
like trees, as for the man
whose sight was restored.

Off the north shore,
Jack held still where
the waters pull
as at a capsized hull.

Named for a cannibal
from Fiji, Vendovi
hid in the fog,
perhaps shy. Or savvy.

Sinclair and Cypress
stand close by. They impress
us with their eminence,
holding viewers in a trance.

Each has its own character,
flora and fauna. Their trees:
Maple, Hemlock, and Cedar.
Tomorrow the sea's.

Leaving the Island

The old engine echoed
through a tunnel of trees,
and by the time I turned
into the final bend
to begin my long descent
towards the dock
all the evening shadows
had entirely disappeared.
The last few cars
boarded the ferry one by one,
bouncing happily
as they passed the gate.
I was surprised
at my own good timing,
though I never cared much about time,
and I only wondered
whether there’d be enough room.

September

This, the first spade
full of earth. Next, a glass
of ice water with the unexpected
taste of lemon. What sounded

like the mail slot being opened,
or when one cigarette
is used to light another.
Like finding an old grocery list

in your pocket, or reading
a psalm you don’t recognize.
At the edge of a field
a roll of barbed wire

is almost entirely uncoiled,
and two leaves blown together
by a gust of wind are blown apart
by the next gust of wind.

Under The Overpass