What was the best compliment you’ve received?
You’re the teacher I hate the least.
there's got to be more below the surface
I can no longer see
consequence. I walk home
and everyone has changed.
I feel the same now as
I did when I was nine:
ignorant and naive—
and unaware of both.
Like crows among the dead,
I worry our future.
When I take my glasses
off, rooms blur with motion.
I find comfort in that
like our bed’s warmth after
you have left for the day.
(March 21, 2023)
In almost-spring, the trees green
the bare branch tips barely while
others feign death like lovers
reluctant to leave bed’s warmth.
I resist most change until
it has already occurred.
It rarely changes that much,
that I must not plan dinner.
Although time’s rituals resist
alterations, the stitches
still fray from everyday use.
I am not much different.
Yesterday was warm and wet;
today cold, windy and clear.
To say
one loses faith,
assumes
quite a bit:
foremost one has
a faith to lose,
more so
than just a given.
Variables exist only
the moment before
the dice settle
on the green felt.
A sentence ends
with nothing left to say.
(March 13, 2023)
I know what you will say—
So, I speak instead to change
the direction of your subject
before you think to speak
Too often I use language
as a shield to deflect
the slashing barrage
of each day’s small talk
I natter through scripts
only I can hear, tumbling
variations into possibilities
from the obscure to the germane
Social cliches constrain
conversation from becoming
too much to hold us together,
and too little to tear us apart
(March 7, 2023)
Along the horizon,
light dusts the sky
in translucent
oranges and reds.
I’m here, not there,
on the back steps
sipping coffee
trying not to break,
and in that moment
remove myself enough
to see the moment
as always enough:
morning light through trees,
with a chorus of birds.
I let the cat in—
then let her out once again,
thus my life proceeds
My students read books,
alone with their thoughts each class,
we learn what we do
I must write a poem
I must write every day
Today, this is it
I’ll write a haiku:
they are simple enough, though
simplicity’s not
I have taught for years and years
I’m still not sure what happens
(February 28, 2023)
“corpses are set to banquet”
–Ezra Pound
the dead are fed
without fear for
without awareness
without consequence
the dog licks
the negligent’s hand
as easily as
the master’s
the servers smirk
taking the plates
away
who knows
what is served
at the end of the day
(February 26, 2023)
I despise my life—
the knife twist memory
each slight
slit across tendons
to fell with guilt
the dynamic
each moment compels
into the next
here now I hold
a third
flick it into the air
to release
with hopeless trust
it will be caught
(February 25, 2023)