mirror mirror

the well offers no echo

for the truth to rise upon


to allow her to step screaming

from the water’s cold depths


to shatter the infinite mirrors

where we live out our lives

(November 1. 2020)

It’s a Familiar Enough Lie (a reading)

It’s a Familiar Enough Lie

With a headful of sighs,

I move from room to room,

stand in the doorway, then turn,

followed by dark regrets

which waited to slither back 

from all the obvious corners.



I promise myself again

as I slip further away: 

it will only be a moment;

then days, then years vanish

before the wait will stop,

before I walk out the door.

(September 19, 2020)

revision

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (81)

summer bears down

without any ambiguity

of phrase

a crucible burns away

the last impurities

without regard

what remains is ash

which with one puff

vanishes

(July 23, 2020)

Afternoon Light

from a work in progress, “process, not a journey”(69)

the grey cat sits

on the table by the window

and watches the mockingbird

on the elm outside

.

I watch her patience

today and yesterday

and last week

and think she’s oblivious

to sit so stoically

day after day

without hope

of any desires’

consummation

.

I lose my way each day

throughout the day

thinking of this

then distracted by that

as if the unspecified contains 

some mysterious truth

more than a cat

sitting in the sun

(June 28, 2020)

of course

a presumption that all

falls into place as if

metaphor were truth

as if anything

we could say

will lead us home

words are tangents

to themselves

too fast to follow

so I plod along

content with the detritus

I stumble upon

making a trail

wherever my foot falls

(December 30, 2019)

Romantic Clap-Trap

The bees are dying—

Beauty and Truth of Nature?

Who can save us now?

(October 25, 2019)

In the Blood

The lie of my truth

visors the angle

of my descent.

I have no face,

but reflection,

a mirror

to lace assumption’s

discordance.

My flesh contains

shattered selves—

a prismatic array,

where each shard

bends an image

of itself into another.

This truth lies

along an edge

of broken glass;

it slices the air

with ribbons of light,

like tall grass

cuts children’s legs

as they flee through

the last summer fields.

(August 15, 2019)

Hidden in the Calligraphy

Yielding more

than simple correspondences,

or letters marked in a ledger,

words bend fields

through which we see

distortions and clarities

reflected like sunlight

in a waterfall’s spume.

they reveal and cloak

certainties in our unease

with what we should believe

as true, and what we know

to be a lie as we speak.

(July 29, 2019)

Confession as a Form of Explanation

My story is true in so far

as it is my story. The lines

I must maintain for my belief

to be justified are many.

I fear questions lest it all falls

like a child’s tower of blocks falls,

tumbled across unstable ground.

Although I know that the truth lies

for I formed each one on my own,

turning them over and over

like rosary beads until smooth,

they still allow me to believe

each stone lies firmly on the next.

With no one to doubt what I say,

the facade I have built is real

I explain to myself myself:

I live forms of happiness

As long as the ever after,

and the hero is always me.

(June 30, 2019)

The Gentle (Penetrating, Wind)

from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress

To be there. To bear witness:

one tells one’s story— That’s all!

That is how evil falls— Again

and again— tell one’s story.

(June 5, 2019)