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Magic Trick
by
In my room each morning
the sun cuts through the window
like a hot knife through butter.
A fan whirs without stirring
the air’s status quo, as dust
hangs in the beams of light
like the fading final chords
of an impotent weltanschauung.
Downstairs the day waits.
Brewed coffee clears the haze
with a dismissive hand. Presto!
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Through Out the Day
I think of something else,
and become lost in the time
it takes to exhale
like entering a different room
then forgetting why
you left.
(August 8, 2026)
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My Hunger is Insatiable, and Cold
If I hold the truth in my hand,
dare I eat it like the eucharist
placed on the tongue of a simple sinner,
or savor it like a mouthful of bourbon
before it burns the words wholly?
(August 7, 2026)
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Winter Falls
by
I’ve resigned myself
that there are no answers
that what we haveis only here now
waiting for yearsto be seen
like an old man’s breathon an icy november day
(August 5, 2026)
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What I Learned Along the Way
by
I wander up Bread Loaf mountain
The day before my Chaucer final
With my professor’s wife, an Anglican
Priest, and their 7 year old son, Luke.
I am not a hiker, but I need to think
About something other than Chaucer
So when she asked us all to go along
I thankfully said yes. No one else did.
I am not a hiker. I am an introvert.
I plod along, thinking, not talking.
Luke asks question after question.
His mom answers each patiently.
She says I’m quite taciturn.
I don’t know its meaning
So I say nothing and continue
Trudging up the mountain.
Luke asks me how I keep going.
I say I think of something else.
She asks what I’m thinking about.
Boethius, I say and take another step.
I need to read it again before tomorrow.It is short enough to be read overnight,
Unlike anything we read for class-
Which was all of Chaucer’s works.
She offers me a bottle of water;I naively did not bring my own.
I am not a hiker. I have a headache,
But nothing like Boethius.
We make it to the top, somehow.The view is stunning and vast.
After eating a sandwich, Luke
Runs about, eager to start down.
The next day, I write for three hours,Comparing parts of Boethius
To corresponding sections
Of Troilus and Cressida.
Stunned I finish, somehowWith nothing left to say:
I am not a hiker. I know
What taciturn means now.
I took a chance on BoethiusAnd found consolation.
I am not a hiker—
So ends my tale.
(August 2, 2026)
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I am What I am Not
If I were to make a self-portrait
and strove to keep it neat,
I’d be much smaller than I am.
I would strip all the mirrorsfrom all the rooms, to see myself
bare of all temporal distortions.
All the walls I have borrowedwould crumble to the ground,
to reveal the empty shell.
Then all memories of all I’ve known,and everyone they ever spoke to,
would have to be forgotten too.
Until layer by layer flaked away—and only my voice remained
with nothing left to say.
(July 30, 2026)
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