POEM OF THE WAY AND ITS VIRTUE

A gesture needn’t 

be enormous

in order to be
enormous.

Maybe this

is all there is: quickmud

is best 

for the yellow flag iris—

but do not sink

to pick it up;

don’t shudder

or overthink

your purpose: go

with the flow

of the current, 

sure—but don’t 

be a dumbass;

use a goddamn rudder.

RIPENING

Mercifully, by late summer

our acidity begins 

to soften;

time has accomplished
what no one could accomplish.
(Though all eyes were focused,
no one noticed how.)

Some unconscious ordeal
of blight has receded,
and the thickly salved carapace
of acceptance settles in.

Without being pressed, now
something takes shape:

decisions made in haste
hit forgiveness
with their tap roots;

fragile hunches blush and grow

sharp in wind’s changes,

thickening their outlines;

The sugared starch of “maybe”
begins to accumulate

and ameliorate the bitterness
of almost, but not quite
yet being able

to waive yesterday—nor yet
being able to say
who we'll be.

(HOW TO) PACK IT IN

To climb back down the mountain
is not to succumb;

in fact, it’s the obverse side
of the goal.

An achievement unwound 

might sound like retroactive no,

but pride in high attainment can exist 

without insisting

on permanently living
where nothing much will grow.

HOLDING SPACE

If it’s the truth

that grief
trains strength,

and stubborn
fortitude,
endurance—

then why
don’t more of us take
out insurance

and volunteer
to stand
without lapse

in the clear dead-
center of the rooms
where we gather

and push the ceiling
up with 

both hands

while trying
as hard as we 
possibly can

to exert a down-

and-outward
pressure with the feet,

in order to make
sure the floor
stays beneath

and prevent
the walls from
probable collapse?

Not to sound
like a jerk,
but if it’s good

for our character,
manufactures worth,
and is so mission-

critical to the lasting

of this world;
then why do I appear 

to be doing

all the work—in fact, 

how come

it looks 

like I’m the only 

person in here?

EVRYTHNG IS UNDR CTRL

It’s no wonder 

a plant grows, 

but an animal ages—

why a tree is
cut down, but a person
gets slaughtered.

O, to be that
capably uncertain

instead of rehearsing 

our choirs 

of expectation.

We think we can 

control the weather

because we can open 

or shut 

the window.

We think only 

what’s broken
needs to be tended—

only what’s finished

can be loved.

We think:

once I'm done holding
this situation together,

perhaps I’ll push 

the sun down again,

pull some stunning 

flowers open,

and then, just for kicks, 

go close my fist

around some running water.

PALIMPSEST ON WILLIAMS, OR: MODERNISM FOR MILLENNIALS W/ MORE SECURE ATTACHMENT STYLES

No ideas

but in things
after 10pm.

LAST DAY

No one has said 

thank you

in a very long time.

And they all fell

in love where I wanted them
to rise.

No way they’re 

getting their 

deposits back again.

Starting over 

Monday. Even still, 

amen.