ABSENCE AS AESTHETIC

Day by day, 

minute 

by minute, 

we content ourselves 

with the imposition 

of our will 

to persist 

upon arbitrariness

and then call 

the newly minted thing fate.

All along the balance beam, 

we prance 

or we cling 

to this gangplank 

that bridges 

the gap between 

the playthings we were 

and the devils 

we're becoming,

capitulating 

to the passing of every 

present moment 

as sweetly as we accept 

the juiciest 

orange is lined with 

rind and pith—

as if 

we could convincingly 

assent to live 

the lives we were 

already born with.

HELIOLATRY

Is it the least bit 

mysterious why I 

worship the sun? 

I too can't resist 

being the center 

of attention.

I too exist to fuse 

the littlest things into 

less wieldy objects,

even though I know 

that will soon

present a problem.

I too am content 

to have lifelong 

dependents 

and too eager 

to let them confuse 

heat with passion, 

light with 

understanding, 

warmth with love.

I too have 

never questioned

my reason for being. 

I too don't ever sleep, 

consumed by this

need to burn things. 

DEATH OF THE AUTHOR

In the grocery 

store lot, 

a carrion crow 

makes a loud 

show of its 

roadkill inspection 

before taking-off 

with guts 

trailing from its mouth 

and leaving 

in its wake just one 

single spectacular 

feather 

of implausibly 

iridescent sable.

And the moral 

of this fable, as it drifts, 

shimmers, settles? 

That god may well 

be a crook

or a sham—but 

the glory 

of creation? Well 

and truly: god damn.

THAT'S THE LIFE FOR ME

It feels not the least 

bit shocking to admit 

from this perch 

where I sit among 

the torrents of today 

that I am not jealous 

of the freedom of water 

to flow and change 

shape and ride 

gravity with ease—

or of light 

to trade its weight 

for the twin eternities 

of everlasting present 

and neverending speed; 

rather, I am jealous 

of the freedom of trees 

to grow slow

and carefully 

into their positions,

and then, to just maintain 

their balance—

to hold fast 

to that erstwhile, 

hard-won shape—

in brief: to simply 

stubbornly stay 

in one blissful 

place for the rest 

of their eternity. 

QUALIFICATIONS

At noon, near the old church, 

just before its clock tower 

chimes the hour, 

I pass a small pack 

of starlings in the garden grass, 

huddled in their daily practice 

of warming-up 

their murmurations—

and in that moment, 

how I wish

that I could quit lurking 

and dredge up the courage 

to ask to join their choir. 

I don't know the songs, 

I'd admit off the bat—

yet I know how to sing,

and I swear that I'm 

equal parts proud 

and dismayed 

as any blithe impulse 

to praise would dictate

to confess 

that I don't get at all 

how that works. 

ANY WAY WE CAN

As so often 

in the park, crust scraps,

casually tossed 

in the wood chips,

attract an array 

of scattershot pigeons 

grateful for this 

providence,

graceless in their privilege 

to underplay their 

daily bread,

to embody the question—

how dare we live 

these lives 

we've been given? 

NIGHTFALL

How suddenly 

it lands now, 

like a crack 

in the jaw

which stuns you 

into silence

and makes you feel 

sorry 

for the illicit

yet broad-

daylight tryst 

that you saw.