from an untitled serial poem (2)
tufts of dark fur
scraps of red cloth
broken glasses pools
of wine the remnants
of someone’s meal
are splashed across
the cottage like blood
on a butcher’s apron
she is not here
neither is he
one fled
one’s dead
birds hop and sing
on the window sill
a family of rabbits
nibble grass
along the path
the door lies shattered
on the ground
dry splinters of wood
punctuate the grass
with unvoiced cliches
(January 3, 2020)
All around him, the forest burns,
uncontrolled, beautiful.
The warmth reassures him
with its certainty.
His fingers burn; the flesh
chars as on a spit.
He turns, searching;
but she is gone, if ever
she were truly there.
He stands alone,
arms outstretched.
Flames leap through the trees;
smoke swallows the sky.
(December 10, 2019)
In downtown Baltimore
Years after he died
Lou Reed sings from the sound system
Of this corporate hotel lobby.
This is funnier
Than it should be.
I am almost sixty years old,
Attending an English teacher convention.
Back in Austin, hours later,
I casually toss herbs into the mortar,
And without thought, begin to grind:
“I don’t want to know…
All the streets you’ve crossed
Not so long ago”
(November 24, 2019)
The sound of my last dream
will be silence: the silence
of fog, the silence of fear.
My last dream will echo
the clack of high heels
on wet London streets.
My last dream will be warm
like your bare skin beneath
my hands late at night.
My last dream will linger
over the thousand, thousand
kisses: your lips soft,
warm, hungry for more.
My last dream will be free
of doubt, secure in coherence
with all the lines blurred.
My last dream will not wake
to return me to a place
it can never know.
My last dream will be
a harbor, a sanctuary,
a last whispered breeze.
(October 15, 2019)
to erase presence,
blend into dust
dancing in sunlight;
or, to be aware,
beware, constantly
of the eternal now
is not a choice
between happiness
and a lived life,
nor, life and death
for that matter,
but compromise:
to watch the sunrise,
to see the sunrise,
despite the sunrise.
(October 10, 2019)
He knew enough
if not too much,
while pretending
he knew it all.
She, too, wanted
more, something
other, ineffable,
not here, not now.
They sat in silence,
without moving,
listening closely
for the other’s heart.
Nearby, on the wall
hung a stale still life.
(September 17, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
not drowning, nor waving
but to enter a room
and not be the room
nor resist the room
each wave is a wave
distinct until the shore
my voice is strangled
before it can be heard
(May 25, 2019)
