MYSELF

Let me say: words won't 

explain our relationship. 

In your presence, absence 

itself turns impossible—

turns over and under 

like the infinity symbol—until 

God himself 

could no longer tell 

who is under who's wing,

or if there's any 

difference between 

remembering and knowing.

But I think I've finally 

come to understand 

that remembering bears 

an inestimable cost:

whatever I think you are—

that's what you're not;

whenever i look, 

i can never find you; 

whatever I grasp, I pass 

through like a ghost.

But the act of my looking 

is the way that you tell me 

that it’s you 

who will teach me 

the value of searching—

you

who can never be 

lost.

NAMES

What are these 

dispassionate 

yet fundamental ciphers;

too old to be 

cherished, and yet 

still considered treasures;

imperatively given 

by dead ends  

to unknown futures;

helplessly passed, in fact,

from one breath 

to the next;

holders of the keys 

to these perilous 

identities; 

so charged full of 

significance that they 

themselves mean nothing;

hollow yet impervious 

as gem-encrusted 

coffins, but

comforting to recognize 

as stillness 

in the morning?

EASY COME EASY GO

We like to assume 

such abiding 

designs, but 

the promises we make 

are just so many 

shiny dimes:

begged from 

the stern, old,

and affluent Actual 

by the curious,

bold, but impetuous 

Possible—and then 

flung with delectation 

to the depths 

of a well 

in great hopes 

that the latent return 

on investment 

will redeem the grim

fate of poor 

President Roosevelt.

OLD STANDBY

Despite our patter

of protestations 

that we're 

all obsessed 

with novelty, 

it's pattern 

that we really seek 

and feel the most 

at home in. 

Rhythm still 

gets our motor going,

while rhyme 

feels like a cup of sugar 

our best words kindly 

lend to others. 

Is it right 

that we derive 

so much succor 

from design? 

If there were 

a difference

between right

and common,

would it matter?

SÉANCE

Would it be 

more odd 

or less 

if the dead 

did not 

leave us? 

Anyone's 

guess. But

my sense is:

a ghost 

at my disposal 

who always 

stayed the same; 

who always 

remained 

in the place 

I expected;

who never

changed clothes,

or the expression

on their face 

since the day

I watched them 

pass 

would be 

the last person 

on Earth 

I would ask 

for advice.

TENET

O, to just have faith 

enough to wake 

and stretch 

and dress and 

emerge—

not with great 

exhilaration, but at least 

with nothing specific

to resist. 

How much of our 

art—how many poems 

have wished this? 

How many of their lines,

burning in their 

earnestness, 

have yearned, 

like us, for this great 

and useless beauty—

for nothing like 

purpose, skill, or 

magnificence—

to be organized and cataloged 

by nothing but 

the date today,

and justified merely 

by declaring 

they exist?

LAST WORD

We like to think that 

matters are settled; 

we think we have the facts. 

But what we think of as truth

may only be 

the middle—or even 

the beginning—

and brief as 

dew on morning grass.

Can you picture the universe 

before it was set 

into motion? 

How about the Earth 

devoid of all creatures; 

before it even had its oceans? 

It's far simpler to hope 

in a dream 

to glimpse 

the ancient races 

and their poets: the joys 

and burdens they would carry;

the paths that they would trod. 

Next time you seek

a final answer, think first 

of all the wildly different 

names they must have had 

for god.