IMPROMPTU

From the grubby 

alien ruins 

of another 

stalled-out new construction 

bursts the ceaseless 

and obdurately 

sunny song 

of some two dozen 

unseen sparrows. 

To us passing commuters, 

their elation 

sounds absrud, 

but their sureness 

proves a slender gift—

the blessing 

and curse of such

groundless motivation:

things could always 

get a little worse.

THE RETREAT

Most vacations are 

such ordeals, they're 

hardly worth the trip; 

let's face it: one bad meal, 

and Edens turn 

to nightmares, 

and wanderlust 

dies hard when it's 

mired in logistics.

And yet, somehow, 

the most excruciating 

trip I've ever taken

was the time I tried 

to stay in the

exact same position, 

forcing that old 

groove down 

as deep as I possibly could

while the rest 

of the world, 

despite my objections, 

rudely 

continued to move.

ROSE-COLORED GLASSES

As days grow long 

and warmer, it becomes 

easier to see 

how everything burns 

to take part 

in reality. 

As the sky of spring gradually 

grows less 

and less obscure, 

it reveals, perhaps

not the text of the song, 

but its birds. 

It's as if mere consciousness 

has taken the baton 

from creation, 

as all our vague 

daydreams 

and half-sure intimations 

suddenly flush with color 

and yearn 

to be expressed.

COUNSEL

Possibly because a poet's 

always there

to witness,

invariably, this

mid-morning caucus

of grackles 

will swoop down 

from the humid sky 

in irridescent ripples,

then spread their 

long tails, puff their 

black bodies, 

and all at once begin

to castigate him

from the park lawn:

there's a song 

even more 

uncongenial than ours, 

which, for obvious 

reasons, you have 

long-since given up on;

but the pull 

to be complete is ever

too sweet to resist,

and so—

before you even 

notice,

you will

feel the need

to finish it.

EXPOSED

You can count it 

and take it 

and save it 

all you want, but 

time 

will never quite 

add up to anything;

its hands

cannot satisfy—

its fabric,

is not flattering.

In fact, it's basically 

a spool 

of super-sheer organza

which you'll cut-up 

and drape

and make your tasteless 

clothes from—

then parade in

up and down your skinny 

life, like it's a catwalk—

pretending 

you look great;

pretending 

that it fits right;

pretending 

it conceals 

one single 

inch of all 

you're wrong about.

OBSCURITY REVISITED

For the millionth time, 

the hungry, lupine 

fog of Lake Michigan

roves inland, 

like some insatiable, 

blank horde of ghosts, 

where it climbs up

and bites off the tops

of our towers, 

making the whole 

bloodless landscape 

of work—

strange monoliths

of commerce, strange pride

in its permenance—

look not merely

grotesque, 

but manmade 

and self-

conscious.

UNDERSTANDING COMES WITH TIME

How many drafts 

does it take 

for a poem 

to wither 

into abiding truth? 

How many differing 

slight iterations 

before its bright, pliant lines 

start to stiffen 

and darken? 

How long before 

all of its slick words 

start to dry

and its stark, solid images 

soften up enough

such that any future reader, 

no matter how doubtful 

or artistically-uninclined, 

could read the instructions 

and easily reproduce them?

I have lost count 

of the nights it has taken 

for the full moon 

to change 

from bloodless—

to dovewhite 

in the lowest-pitched hope

that, in the mind of a person 

I don't even know yet, 

it may hang everlastingly 

in the heart 

of their cosmos 

and never start 

to wane.