READING POETRY

The work is not 

to understand, 

deliberate, or make 

an inference; 

it's not so much 

interpreting as 

staring 

down a word 

until it means 

something—

then nothing—

then everything—

and at last,

if you're lucky, 

finally just 

itself again—only

now with that

explicitly 

unspeakable bit 

of difference. 

WIDE RELEASE

So swift 

and brutal was the nature 

of adversity—

so compressed 

and ruthless-

ly cut 

the montage 

of our troubles—

that, stock 

plot or not, sooner 

or later 

it became easy 

to convince ourselves 

we were living 

through a movie. 

First, as protagonists; 

later, as actors; 

and finally, 

as popcorn 

munchers staying 

for the credits

and only just 

now dimly 

trying to summon

the effort to stand 

up and exit 

the theater.

ACROBATS

What sort of creatures

both expect

and remember? 

It seems

since we left 

the trees, 

the rocks, 

the beach, 

the ocean, 

that some agents 

of destruction 

have been selling us

on adventure;

some reckless advisors 

have been whispering 

at our side. 

Their performances, 

however 

disingenuous, 

have been riveting—

but notice 

how that's no kind 

of answer. 

NOTE TO SELF

Just now, feeling heartened

by the clamor 

of December geese 

who scrape the sky 

on their bracing 

dash for sunnier climes—

but wait a minute—

why?

Because they remind me 

of all the others 

out there

who sound

and who look just 

the same in my mind, 

only fainter, 

because smaller, 

farther away, grayer—

but who, in their 

way, first reminded me 

of these.

UNFAIR

What sort of creature 

is the opposite 

of habit? 

Behavior as 

digression,

as estrangement 

with the past; 

reason 

as nostalgia,

and motive, 

a best-

dressed contest. 

Before I learned 

of devils, 

I might have been convinced 

that my actions 

were equal 

parts frivolous 

and blessed. 

HALF-TRUTH

As two hands 

draw together,

and each tented finger 

arcs to connect 

with its 

chiral mate, 

old power lines 

tilt inward 

and cradle gray roads. 

How, body 

by body, the world aches

to befriend itself—

how there's no earthly 

way of ever saying 

what it's like.

WAITING ROOM

The excruciating 

way the second 

hand of the clock 

stalls 

for its small 

eternities, 

as if resting—

as if catching its base- 

sixty breath 

upon chagrined completion 

of its

herculean task—

then stutters 

forward again 

with a jolt 

as if coerced—

as if enslaved 

to time's accretion 

with no will 

or countenance left 

for revolt—

inspires less 

impatience than 

dismay, and less regret 

than a softening 

to sympathetic amity 

toward death.