by
the day’s drudgery plods along
disrupted infrequently
by an anti-climactic pause—
the end is no nearer, nor
farther away than it was
minutes or years ago
it’s always right here
on the cusp of a wave
crashing toward a distant star
any change that changes changes
without a melodramatic laugh
in a quickly-twirled mustache
I am here, as you are there
but only until we are not
(April 11, 2023)
Next to the lake
where I will
eventually drown,
I hear echoes
of what you said then
as if they were mine.
Phrases formed and
familiar enough
to resemble our kiss,
if there had been a kiss.
Something I wrote,
or said, returns softened
enough along the edges
of the dark water’s
crumbling definitions:
a twilight like memory
which slowly diminishes
into the night lingering
only in the dim stars
reflected across the lake.
(April 7, 2023)
by
1.
three crows cross the yard
oblivious to the time, and
with nowhere to go
I spend the morning singing
as I pull weeds from the earth
2.
three crows cross the yard
then vanish in the new leaves
which cover the trees
I see only their shadows;
they are gone when I look up
3.
three crows cross the yard
their blue-black wings stir the air
with tessellations
this poem is like all the others:
old patterns within patterns
(March 30, 2023)
The second time, she dropped it in my hand:
a warm offering, somehow still alive.
2.
This morning she left it on the porch: warm
yet lifeless, before she walked casually away.
3.
That second time, I took it past the back gate
and released it into the wild.
4.
The last time content just to show me,
she left it on the porch, and came inside.
(March 28, 2023)
by
What was the best compliment you’ve received?
You’re the teacher I hate the least.
by
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.
by
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)
by
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)
Striving for happiness,
we worry so about
the then and when
that now’s forgotten
in the world’s swirl.
Like a child’s top,
we wobble wildly
gaining balance,
losing equilibrium,
forgetting the moment
the top gyrates
into a stillness;
it seems unmoving
even as it spins,
and spins, and spins.
(February 21, 2023)
