TO MY DYING BREATH

On my last day 

on Earth, you'll wish I wasn't 

such a coward 

who dreamed 

of sequences viewed 

out of order, 

and squandered your predecessors  

begging pieces 

of advice 

regarding things being 

other than they were—and 

how to get there. 

But you'll only have 

a moment, so 

you'll have to be concise: just say

I never learned to see 

the beauty 

in what's necessary—

which would have to be 

the first, if not the only 

prerequisite 

of any 

life worth living 

twice.

UNRESOLVED

When the spent stars 

at dawn, commence 

to their wavering—

long overdue 

in disappearing, but 

not yet gone—

who am I 

to keep my eyes fixed 

on their glimmering, 

wishing on their embers

(every wobbly 

last vapor)

only that they 

could keep their 

lucky arms unfurled? 

I am not the kind 

who would starve 

in a forest 

just to spare 

the wild and brilliant 

plumage of its birds;

so why would I impose 

such a stagnant thing 

as beauty 

on the strange 

and mercurial soul 

of this world? 

UNSEEN POWER

The evening light 

grows dim 

as my conviction 

that it's never too late 

to be taught. And still, 

I walk on, lost 

in thought, past 

slumping shoulders, 

weeping trees;

past slow-moving 

pigeons, just begging 

to be caught. But 

this malaise 

of imperfections, 

these defects 

are distractions; this world

I know

cannot be such a brittle star.

If anything, it's 

a mousetrap—a lazy 

seduction: 

all things appear 

weaker than 

they really are. 

HAVE MERCY

There's a message for us—

written, perhaps, 

in the postures 

of gnarled and

prodigious old trees

who never grew guardian

limbs this sturdy 

to harbor 

the likes of these 

avian refugees; 

whose vigilant branches 

were never quite conscious 

of the hives in their 

midst, or their 

startling fragility;

whose thunderous trunks 

were never intended 

to shelter slender squirrels

in their winter

dens of rest—and yet? 

And yet, despite 

all of this, nevertheless...

ULYSSES PACT

Lucky me—

so thrilled to be a penitent 

servant 

to such a rough, devious 

master 

as poetry; 

forswearing 

understanding, I commit still

to her handcuffs 

for the masochistic privilege 

of coveting 

her keys.

A DEPARTURE

The thought is never far 

from the top 

of my mind 

that I would do anything 

to stop myself 

from decomposing. 

And yet, 

there's something 

in experience  

which shows me 

this is wrong:

it's something about 

the comforting feeling 

of a lozenge on the tongue; 

the way I perceive 

the sweetness 

more clearly 

the more its clean edges 

seem to soften 

and dissolve;

the way I seem 

to love 

even the smallest 

bit of my understanding 

most

the instant 

before it's gone. 

BEYOND ME

There—in that 

green space 

where the freshest light 

goes streaking 

through the morning-

spangled branches 

of the still-trembling trees, 

past shabby fields 

of clover and weeds 

where the lawnmowers 

will not go, just to land 

with a gleam 

on the distant heaps

of pink blushing brick 

where even my 

vaguest interlocutors sleep—

that is the place 

where, one day, I 

may come 

to believe, 

without artifice, 

in life 

after death—that is,

in the life 

of this ardent reckless 

world to come 

long after mine 

is done.