every day’s most quiet need (133)

when I wake 

into the night

uncertain

of where 

I am 

I hear your breath 

nearby 

a surety 

you are 

still  

a part 

of me 

(April 15, 2021) 

Layers (122)

the cat slept all day

turned tightly into herself

a sublime wisdom


snow begins to fall

silencing the day’s hard sleet

the night grows colder


ice brightens the moon

along the bare branches’ backs

like a hot whip’s snap


by morning the snow

drapes the yard as if with light

the chimes slowly sound


a lone mockingbird chirrups

inside the house the cat waits

(February 18, 2021)

the rime grows thick (83)

you walk home

it’s late 

the snow falls

as thick as your dreams

when suddenly you think

you’re lost and the wood

nearby is strangely

far from home


the bright lights flash

patterns on the snow

like christmas lights

in the village square


the sheriff interrupts you

to say no that yes it is

a normal amount of blood

for a woman that size


you laugh at the absurdity

of dying so close to your home

what was the point of leaving

when you had nowhere to go

(October 12, 2020)

there’s no time

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (71)

some time after sunrise I wake

go downstairs book notebook

pen in hand make coffee take

my meds check various

social platforms eat some thing

shower get dressed

sometimes read sometimes write

sometimes nap wake

cook dinner wash the dishes

watch TV listen to music and

then after some time go to sleep

(July 2, 2020)

Lost Books

Several weeks ago something made me think about rereading Tristan Tzara’s “Approximate Man.” I searched every bookcase in the house multiple times( yes, I am obsessive). I couldn’t find it. I knew I had not loaned it out… I mean who do I know that would want to read it? Then yesterday, from across the room, I spotted it on the shelf in plain sight. I figure a ghost, or old age.

Agoraphobia

Outside,

the trees and bushes seem

to vibrate in the bright heat;

as if any moment, they’ll collapse

into their own shade, exhausted.

*

Inside,

they are framed in the window.

I watch them from across the room

from the chair I’m sitting in.

I am cold in the conditioned air.

*

August

has begun. Soon, I’ll be back

at work, teaching my students

to find meaning in the mundane

details which often overwhelm us.

(August 3, 2019)

Youthful Folly

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

I found myself

without looking

for myself.

Only fools question

and question, then

doubt again.

I was there

from the start;

I simply noticed

where I had been

all along.

(January 21, 2019)

Returning Home


Like lover’s forgotten notes,

disturbed dreams fold

into night’s pocket. I wake

into another dark morning,

surprised I was still asleep.

It’s wearing to be aware

even in one’s dreams. The days

protective surety thins

and the ground falls away

into air. Too often I return

to you, who does not exist

beyond my desire for you

to exist. Like stepping 

suddenly into a forest 

clearing, each narrative 

trace left from dream,

or memory leads me into 

a present space. Not caught 

up in past complications,

nor the fractal explosions 

on the verge of occurrence,

I notice momentarily 

the effulgent light along

The edges of the shimmering 

leaves, and I am happy.

(January 15, 2018)

Home

riverbed-camping-techniques-jordan-8.jpg

There is less to do,

less to talk about now.

Where do I lay

my belief like a sack

full of rocks? When

do I shuck off

the tired traces

and stand unburdened?

 

There is no where

to go, but here–

and finally I have come

to a place I have

always been unknown,

a place that is mine.

 

(September 18, 2018)

Three Haiku

IMG_5679

 

The cat sleeps nearby;

I ma cold and need a nap:

the day fills with tasks.

 

**

 

Snow on bare branches

melts as fresh green buds beckon

after the sun’s light.

 

**

 

Light rain saturates

the garden after a grey week,

I write listlessly.

 

(September 15, 2018)