HEREBY

From the lengthening light slant
to the now-birdless fence tops,
the season has given its 

two weeks notice:

soon, the gardens will grow
naught but radishes.
Crows are more available
as literary devices. And I

am still waiting—still
grieving the gaps
between all I had accepted
yet still hoped to accomplish.

But if I thought it would help
to re-lengthen the days,
I would promise to light
my own life on fire,

minute by minute, one 

task at a time. In exchange, 

I’d entreat you, heaven: 

come blow me out again—

and in doing so, send my 

presentiments flying

to whichever afterlife 

they’re already doomed to go.

FIRST OF SEPTEMBER

Children back in school—

I fling my window open to hear 

the quiet morning better.

RETROGRADE

Ever since I 

became your world, 

I'm amazed, 

looking back, how little 

anything has changed;

you are still my sun—

my moon—

my stars: 

always

you are 

far—

silent—phasing 

away in the dark—

A REAPPRAISAL

Have you seen, along the road
to ruin, how each blade
of crabgrass comes topped
with a dewdrop—

a carpet made 

of gems which runs toward 

referenda

on the wrong?

After all, a jewel
wouldn’t be a jewel
if it hadn’t been found
in a locked vault of stone,

and a praise bell wouldn’t
make a sound at all
if it wasn’t moved
to exalt when struck—

if that which pummeled it
wasn’t also part of it
and didn’t then become
the subject of its song.

SO HELP US

God we are all
such crooks—I mean,
look at us

stealing dates, furtive
glances, midnight
snacks, inhalations—it’s like 

we’re born

to be ingrates who 

go through life begging

to be caught
with our red hands
in an existential cookie jar—

and not for the rush,
or because it’s
"who we are," but

just to practice for
armageddon—
that feeling of sitting

one foot from the judge’s chair
with that very same hand
on a stiff bible, stating

nothing
but the truth,
and the whole

truth, so help us:
that Telos and Logos
could never understand

how damn often 

there are no such things 

as good explanations.

ART BRUT

I’m afraid of getting
too close to the thing

because I’ve got a funny 

feeling that, if life

were a painting,

it wouldn’t bear
a signature.

Despite oils and gessos
of extravagant color;

despite all the playful
shapes, strokes, 

and ligatures 

meant to evoke it’s subject’s 

singular features;

despite delicate and 

abstract layers of preferences

and memories;

and especially 

despite the fact that

many come to see it
and several great masters 
have claimed they're the author—

when I scanned
and turned it over,

there'd be nothing 

there to see, because nobody
made this—

it just came
to be.

MINDFULNESS AS HAMARTIA

What will nourish
day-to-day versus

punish, who can say?

What luck:
this over-
abundance of nature’s

great flavor for 

beauty in the cup 

of just one flower—

but still, I bet 

you’d end up crazy 

with hunger

if you were to pluck
one to have
as your dinner.