Thursday, May 6, 2021


Maybe there's 
a purpose
to each place, 

an end
which pacifies  
all the objections.

Maybe there's 
a bedrock 
somewhere behind your face 

which is free 
of all of the guilt 
of comparison.

Would you rather be 
the fish 
in this aquarium—

forgetting, with each turn, 
the dimensions 
of your prison? 

Would you sigh
with your gills 
spread so wide 

that the patron 
passing by could
see to your inside?

It's possible
what we've built
is all that there is,

but that doesn't mean we 
were designed to 
recognize it.

Wednesday, May 5, 2021


Even the sun—dependable, huge, 
true as it comes,

you know, before 
too long, is 
how it will leave you.

And here, all you've done 
is walk 
into the room;

you must 
not have a thing 
to lose.

Tuesday, May 4, 2021


From the bluntest 
of blows and the 
most pointless impacts—

asteroids smashed 
into still-
molten planets, 

rocks that bust rocks, 
dashboards crushed 
against foreheads—

instead of destroyed 
in a powderkeg 
of morass,

somehow, your
appreciation grows
even more exact.

Monday, May 3, 2021


At last, when there's 
only a minute 
of daylight remaining,

time finally relaxes
and unclenches, 

expanding in significance 
as the sky 
in turn diminishes;

over far shadowed 
hills, mauve clouds 
in the distance, 

a long low note 
being held
in your head—

the last syllable 
of a goodbye

which doesn't know 
how to finish.

Friday, April 30, 2021


though may be, 

there is no reality 
behind the scene;

reality is simply 
the scene 
seen rightly.

The room 
where you and I once sat
all night arguing—

tacking up 
tents, drawing 
boundaries on the thing—

might itself 
have been 

But then, we'd have 
to imagine,

so too 
would have been
the elephant. 

Thursday, April 29, 2021


Your home is not 
a place you can leave; 
your home is that spot 

where you can't stand 
to be, but nevertheless 
can't stop;

it's the position you're in 
and the attention
you command when 

your ship's coming in, 
and it's the face 
that you make 

while their train's 
pulling out—
that grimace of stone

while you wave 
very slow and refuse 
any teardrops, as if 

even the wind should know 
to blow around you 
on the platform,

because you have 
never allowed 

to be moved,
and you do not intend 
to start now.

Wednesday, April 28, 2021


At some definite
moment, the object 
of going 

to the triumph of 
making it back. 

Attainment depends 
not on our finally 
heading to the laundromat

but that proximate
uncanny moment when it 
feels like we never left.

In the end, 
it doesn't matter 
how noble the errand—

endeavor alone
is a sentence 
to death; 

to leave 
and come home is 
a sacrament.