SALT

A poem worth its salt 

instructs

because it doesn't. 

Its words are false 

culprits 

whose vices 

are all too real.

Recall how a meal

is coerced 

to taste less bitter

when a brackish tang 

makes neutral 

seem sweet;

by such oblique action, 

each line teaches 

not what, 

but how—

and how much—

to feel.

PERDITION

One of late fall's cruelest tricks—

the repeating patterns 

of symmetrical bramble 

where abundance 

and plenty 

and multiplicity once stood.

No more ears 

of colored kernels on 

the corn stalks, 

no moss 

among the farmhouse bricks.

And elsewhere, across 

every deserted city park, 

warped baseball diamond, 

desiccated front lawn,

stems, trunks, vines, stalks—

all blossoming 

with the colorless 

fruit of autumn's sameness, 

all in illustrious bloom

with our loss.

FOR EXAMPLE

Our days are pervaded 

with so much sweetness 

that often, it's counter-

productive to notice. 

Ever realize 

how it's alright 

that you don't know 

what the birds are saying?

You are not living 

at the end of time;

tomorrow will arrive.

There is nothing 

you can do—

or need to.

FEAR NOT

Tedious  

though it is, 

stasis 

has its upside—

which is (of course)

that no downside 

exists.

In heaven, for instance,

what "is" 

is less precious, 

doesn't mean as much— 

and perhaps 

that means more

 

than we're willing

to admit.

*

And God said, 

fear not;

to me you are more valuable 

than a whole flock 

of sparrows.

And some who were assembled there 

tried hard not to wonder, 

how many birds really count 

as a flock?

And a few others 

started pulling bows back 

with arrows.

And the rest sort of toed the ground,

or else turned aside 

and coughed.

*

What is a soul?—

but our sense

of denial,

famously bitter

and let out 

on the prowl.

The look on its face says, 

I'm adamant

I'm elsewhere.

Nothing that happened here

ever mattered 

anyhow.

*FOOTNOTE TO FROST

Nothing gold can 

stay, he wrote,

but nothing 

turned precious 

overnight, either.

Treasure is so 

because, first,

it's been lost;

and that need 

burns worst which 

takes longest 

to arrive.

Like diamond 

from coal, 

the obstruction 

tends the goal—

the mind 

must be squeezed 

til it caves 

into a soul.

STANDS TO REASON

It's frightening, isn't it?— 

to find ourselves 

so groundlessly romantic, 

so swept up in the strange 

and the dangerous 

side of sanguine. 

I mean, how conceited—

how reckless 

can you get?

To sit there and wait 

for just the right bird

to perch in your soul 

and sing her unending 

song without words?

Forget about 

the thing with feathers—

perhaps hope 

is that open road

piercing the horizon,

but coincidence

was finding 

some time on your hands,

a tank full of gas,

and no map.

BLACK BOX

Some days, 

I'm content

that my head remains 

a black box.

Instead I wish

my chest

 

was made 

out of glass—

then, you'd

so clearly 

be able to see, 

in my heart, 

how I'm always 

trying to do 

my best.

No matter 

what else;

even when 

it might be killing me;

even when I smile

and insist 

"this is fine,"

you would see 

that I believe it, 

even though you

know I'm 

lying.