Thursday, May 6, 2021


Maybe there's 
a purpose
to each place, 

an end
which pacifies  
all the objections.

Maybe there's 
a bedrock 
somewhere behind your face 

which is free 
of all of the guilt 
of comparison.

Would you rather be 
the fish 
in this aquarium—

forgetting, with each turn, 
the dimensions 
of your prison? 

Would you sigh
with your gills 
spread so wide 

that the patron 
passing by could
see to your inside?

It's possible
what we've built
is all that there is,

but that doesn't mean we 
were designed to 
recognize it.

Wednesday, May 5, 2021


Even the sun—dependable, huge, 
true as it comes,

you know, before 
too long, is 
how it will leave you.

And here, all you've done 
is walk 
into the room;

you must 
not have a thing 
to lose.

Tuesday, May 4, 2021


From the bluntest 
of blows and the 
most pointless impacts—

asteroids smashed 
into still-
molten planets, 

rocks that bust rocks, 
dashboards crushed 
against foreheads—

instead of destroyed 
in a powderkeg 
of morass,

somehow, your
appreciation grows
even more exact.

Monday, May 3, 2021


At last, when there's 
only a minute 
of daylight remaining,

time finally relaxes
and unclenches, 

expanding in significance 
as the sky 
in turn diminishes;

over far shadowed 
hills, mauve clouds 
in the distance, 

a long low note 
being held
in your head—

the last syllable 
of a goodbye

which doesn't know 
how to finish.