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.

IN DEFENSE OF QUIET DESPERATION

Once in a while, I 

grant you: revolution's 

a necessity. 

But most 

of the time, my 

tremendous sensitivity 

would like 

to argue: it's 

too messy. I'm turned off 

by the turmoil 

and the violence 

which is crucial 

to make a clean 

break with The Current

or The Senseless;

I don't want to long 

for the change 

I need to make 

with such passionate 

defiance that I'm 

swept up in some coup;

I'd much prefer to 

fall in love with 

what little I can do.

TO APRIL

The great rabbles

of clouds in your 

quicksilver sky—

confounding,

combining, 

compounding

one another—

are somehow 

less foreboding 

than the ominous way 

they loiter there

all day, holding on

to their rain.

CLIFFHANGER

If this were a movie, 

we'd think 

we've been shortchanged. 

And no wonder: 

the storyline's

meandering; the moral

won't cohere. But 

though we're alone in this 

cavernous theater,

and no one 

would be the wiser, 

the reason 

we haven't yet 

gotten up and left 

is simply because 

we can't—at least, 

not the we 

that we think of 

as us. 

See, somewhere between 

the start of the joint

and this particular 

maddening scene,

we've failed to notice 

the plot's 

beside the point.

As long as we're here 

to watch it progress, 

this life, 

by necessity, must 

be bereft 

not only of a happy 

or ambiguous ending—

but a proper 

ending all together. 

AFFIRMATION

Your duress, though 

intangible, is a matter 

of fact. Yes, it's less 

material than, say, 

an egg which is 

made of Fabergé, 

and yet: there it 

sits, every bit

as intact 

and impeccably 

jeweled in the pearls 

and enamel 

which you forged 

with great care and 

fastidiousness 

in the just-as-

immaterial furnace 

of your stress—yes,

every bit 

as lavish and loving-

ly constructed—

perhaps not quite 

as elegant, but

every bit as frangible.

SEDIMENTAL FEELING

What were the magic 

words that formed 

the world? 

For an instant

most mornings, I suspect 

that I just knew;

but soon, there's a tide 

in the ocean 

of my mind 

dragging out to sea 

all the things I think

are true—and then 

washing mixed-up bits 

and pieces of them 

right back in again—

until most 

of the detritus I can 

see along this beach 

is made up of stuff 

so self-

similar and small

that it's impossible 

for me to count 

each individual particle. 

The best I can do 

is try to put 

the view to use

and give 

one collective name 

to them all.

HOLDINGS

It's impossible

to know 

at the very beginning 

what you'll eventually 

discard 

or outgrow 

and what is worth 

clutching to your soul

just in case. 

It's like how 

you still think 

abnormally hard 

about whether 

to toss 

that pickle jar

which you haven't 

thought to open 

in over three months, 

or keep it there

for three 

or four more 

just because 

you have 

the fridge space.

EKPHRASIS FOR THE PIN-UP GIRL

Even solid gold 

comes off messy 

when it glows 

from its post as 

the trove of her hair—tangled 

in the bearing 

of all that she must know,

too highly regarded 

to be tamed by a comb— 

as she gazes 

out from underneath 

all that wealth without a care,

eyes less daydreaming 

than floating, just above, 

or possibly below 

some effortless truth

about the nature 

of allure 

which you or I, being 

cheap and human, would have 

foolishly discarded.

SHADOWS

For almost as long 

as there has been light, 

something has been there 

to get in the way of it—

casting its absence

as a twin left behind,

a piece of the dark 

in the shape 

of its essence,

recognizable 

in an instant, and yet built 

out of nothing 

and showing us—we 

who are filled

with such questions, 

we who blockade light 

ourselves with these 

bodies—even less 

than those 

selves, even less 

than the night. 

NO ASYLUM

One would think 

that, with the rain clouds 

now parting

and the light drizzling down 

like honey 

from the sun 

on the wet city streets 

which are glistening 

like tongues, you too 

would get

sweetened, would be cleansed 

of what was wrong. 

But in truth, there's no 

asylum in a world that bests

its flaws;

it's a dirtying feeling 

when you sense you 

don't belong. 

ALL THAT JAZZ

Is it possible 

for life to be both 

enjoyed and endured?— 

for the little you have left 

to be the most 

for which you hope? 

The preachers

say no—that our purpose 

shall be known—

while the politicians

split the vote by angling 

for an either/or; 

but the rest of us don't 

bother sending soldiers 

to that war, since 

we already know 

the answer is: sure, that's 

what music is for. 

SYNTHESIS

We're bred 

to think ourselves slaves

to affection—

to assume what we seek 

above all is closeness. 

But in truth, what we 

crave is a strange 

combination 

of intimacy 

and remoteness. 

Perhaps that's why 

in centuries past, 

brave men 

would helm the sterns 

of great boats, 

and, spurning common sense, 

sail off the edge 

into seas unknown 

only to yearn 

for the first sight of land

and dream under bright stars 

of their dull

lives back home.

CONTINGENCY

Like a musty old chess set 

whose knights were 

long lost 

and have since been 

replaced by two 

snatches of cloth, 

or the rusty stock pot 

with a frying pan 

for its cover 

that's too trusty 

to replace, even 

at trivial cost—so too 

can a heart 

still be 

jury-rigged to work 

even with a few 

of its parts 

snatched out, 

mislaid by 

the user, or 

accidentally tossed. 

GAPING

One would think 

that understanding 

would look different 

than bewilderment—at least 

from the outside, 

but the truth is

but it doesn't. 

The truth is, it looks 

exactly like you: 

stopping short, 

gobsmacked 

in front of a shop window 

at the sight of 

not the twin—not even 

the shadow—

but the stranger 

who's depicted there, 

thick, cold, and 

impenetrable. 

It looks like you losing 

and gaining 

sight of the facts

that a gap 

can take up space

and mass—

that some reticence is 

plainly visible—

that certain lacks 

feel solid, vast, 

and, though slight, still

quite unbridgeable.

NO NEW THING UNDER THE SUN

The "full implications"

of some things 

stubbornly persist, 

while others 

(however devout-

ly we wish 

would remain 

considerable) gradually 

diminish. But

this is just the way 

it works with 

significance: 

there is no trick

on Earth you could pull

to arrange it.

As the known universe 

expands, and our quarks

grow stranger, 

the physicists 

only grow more 

and more certain—

the lay public, less 

enthusiastic—instead 

of the opposite. 

MEMENTO

To the old scythe-

nosed crow, half-cackling, half-

rasping

who has lapsed 

in the flight which is his grim 

and ceaseless office  

to perch upon that 

street lamp in my vantage 

in broad daylight:

I am glad

to be reminded of 

the certitude of death 

in a manner which I can't 

laugh off—and yet, which I can 

manage.

THE PROCESS

In the all-hell-

busted wreck 

of late March, spring 

is no pleasing, 

no delicate thing—

in fact,

she looks more 

like a fiend, 

an addict, a mess. 

If figures: 

the enfant terrible 

of the seasons 

has once again 

confronted us with 

"difficult art."

All who dare look

upon the cold

fecond dross 

of her latest, most 

reasonless canvas

must wonder: am I looking 

at the end of something? 

Or is this just

the start?

THE BREATH

There's a part of me 

whose only function 

is to keep two 

other parts from

touching. 

It's clean, transparent 

and made 

out of something 

resembling light—only 

lighter, 

more gossamer, 

less well 

defined—

which is 

just what's required 

when you 

need to clear 

the air between 

the longings

of your heart 

and the worries 

on your mind. 

EX NIHILO

If the narrator 

of the this faded 

and arcane little book 

would deign 

to speak out, I'm quite 

sure they'd observe 

that every time 

you sniffed, I sneezed; 

that just after 

you itched, 

I scratched; and that 

as soon as you got the urge, 

I danced. 

Not in space, of course—

not with my limbs sculpting 

glutenous time 

into readymade 

vessels for

operative gestures—but

all through the pages 

of interior space 

which contain the long story 

of how we came to be 

divorced. 

MISDIRECTION

Ever notice? 

The things we 

can't grasp

are the ones 

that we covet. 

Absences, 

dearths, sins 

of omission: these

fascinate more 

than plain 

interest might 

explain. Perhaps it's 

this obsession

with lack 

of satisfaction

which accounts 

for the way 

our hearts behave: 

always chasing 

after flashes 

of lust with 

nothing 

significant underneath, 

rather than 

the blander guts 

of deep-

ly intelligent matches. 

GRANDSTANDING

Oh if it only it were 

so simple 

for the rest of us 

to get going 

like the tough 

when the going 

gets rough, 

instead of 

loading-up the tragic 

events with extraneous 

words and acts 

to protract 

their significance. 

I, for one, wonder—

who on Earth 

are these supermen 

who press 

on in the face 

of impending 

disaster 

in lieu of showing it off 

to their wearied 

fellow travelers

and/or feting it 

with their eloquence? 

ON TAXONOMIC HIERARCHY

It's said 

a shrimp's heart 

is in its head.

Sounds impressive—

but easy 

to pull off when

you're an arthropod, 

and all of your armor 

is a part 

of the facade. 

Still,

I admit, there's 

a pit 

beneath my soft skin

and deep inside 

my rib cage, which,

if not quite 

obsessed, is

at the very least 

curious 

what it would be like

to stop

overthinking this

and, just for 

a bit, over-

feel it instead.

IN THE ZONE

Once you're alone 

for too long, it's even worse

to be disturbed. 

There you were: 

fathoms deep 

in your mind palace, 

set before 

a perceptual 

feast just for one

and raising 

a chalice to the lack

of observation

when along comes 

some beggar, knocking 

desperate at your door,

as if it were

conceivable—let alone 

simple—to share 

one's isolation. As if 

the desolate depths 

of pure loneliness 

could be plumbed 

and abated by a little 

conversation.

TO THE VERNAL EQUINOX

Even though we 

know that we know 

how soon, how 

benignly, how inexorably 

you'll arrive, 

still we turn 

our faces to the sky 

to gawk in surprise 

at your arrival,

as though it were 

the very first time—as though 

we did not know 

that we know 

how long we have 

languished here, stymied 

by the poem

and pining for days 

when the world 

would receive us 

into more than 

just a waiting room; 

when nothing 

would seem necessary 

except (perhaps) 

contingency; 

when the language 

of flowers 

would not just inform,

but truly overwhelm 

the flowers 

of language. 

OUT OF THE QUESTION

Have you not realized 

by now how your 

most fervent wish 

has always been 

to ditch this existence,

to become somehow 

different, to turn 

into someone else? 

Thousands upon thousands 

of spins around this Earth—

a conduit of translation, 

a passionate observer 

of births and 

of deaths—and yet, 

oblivious to these motions, 

your sights have been set 

not on the longing 

for contentment, 

or for happiness, but 

instead, on the hunger 

to be other than you are—as if 

the one with whom 

you've sat and borne

witness to these moments 

was not but an awkward 

and a sheer and total stranger, 

with whom you still find

yourself thrilled 

(as well as frightened)

to sit and share the dark. 

PRAYER

By now, I've said 

[your name]

out loud 

so many times in a row, 

that it's done meaning 

everything 

which I seemed 

to seek salvation from,

gone long past 

the sound of the cooed 

gibberish whose 

infantile pleasures I 

barely recall—

and officially now 

has arrived 

as a stand-in 

for any 

thought I could think

at all. 

FULL ANALYSIS W/ COMMENTARY

Your love: 

it's so much 

like a dream

that I'm never sure 

how long 

it lasted, 

or what it was 

supposed 

to mean.

SHITSHOW

Finding I'm faced 

west at sunset 

and alone, I understand 

how the only 

things I've ever owned 

are the failures, mistakes, and 

misconceptions 

which have plagued me—

how they all staggered 

after me, like the undead 

in a horror film, 

with hands stretched 

when I tried to ditch them;

each so sincere 

in its resolute faith 

that its clever machination

could spring me 

from the present jam;

and all of them 

correct (despite their 

grave miscalculations) that, 

despite my refusal 

to let them 

touch my skin, 

it has always been 

my running from them 

which has brought me 

where I am.

SELF

Even when I refuse to, 

it feels like I am still 

searching for you—

you, whom I'm sure 

I remember, 

though the last time 

we spoke, there was silence 

between us, 

and the last time we were together 

in the same room was 

long ago—

you, who never once tried to 

explain to me 

your identity, as if 

the inadmissibility 

of language 

was all you could need 

for evidence. 

You—

whom I know beyond

the darkest  shadow 

of reason 

that I must love,

even though

your existence 

I will never be able 

to prove. 

COPACETIC

At the end of the hall 

which is 

all that exists between us, 

there used to be 

an unlocked door 

through which we 

could pass 

on an errand or two 

to the stacks—

those dank archives of 

pitiful feeling 

we'd been hording  

on the off-chance 

an adventurer 

would come looking 

and discover there 

the treasure that would 

make them world-famous. 

And through that hall 

and the labyrinths 

which surround it 

have long since fallen 

into disrepair, 

I can tell from this distance 

that the door 

is still there—because 

every time you ask me 

where I've been or 

how it's going, 

I can faintly hear 

the quick pop 

of a lock—and the sound 

of it stubbornly  

creaking open.

I BLAME THE INTERNET

There are drawbacks 

to knowing what everything 

is for.

Around every corner, 

there used to be 

dangers, so 

we had to be 

cautious—but also 

much braver. 

Life itself 

was sacramental, 

so everyone on Earth 

was religious 

by nature.

But now we know 

that divinity 

was only eternity's 

loud and tacky 

costume—and worse: 

that the universe 

is really just 

a courtroom,

wherein 

the most impassioned 

argument

writes the headline 

and the nomenclature. 

SCHOOLED

So, what then

is the difference 

between 

resentful 

and jealous? 

There the sparrows, 

all congregated 

naked in the still-

dead bushes, 

and the sound of their chirping has

unfastened me a little:

how recklessly 

happy—how delirious 

they sound,

and how foreign 

to my marrow 

it is to celebrate 

deficiency

just 

by subsisting here, 

at the tail-end of winter,

so cold, and so 

conscious, and so violent-

ly hungry. 

SPELLBOUND

The softest pedal 

on the piano 

must be down, 

smearing those unhurried 

arpeggios 

into clouds—

strange-

ly shaped formations, 

barely there, 

but half-occluded 

by devotion's 

hungry shadow 

outlasting 

my impatience 

and every expectation 

to have 

moments ago 

outgrown this fascination 

and snapped 

back off 

the radio. 

NOT MUCH OF A CLIFFHANGER

Have you noticed—

when it comes to being 

out of our depth, 

the harder-

up we get, the less 

help we'll accept? 

It's like: for over half 

of the film, we've been 

hanging from the cliff, 

fingers growing 

gradually wetter 

with sweat; 

but instead 

of either keeping 

our strength conserved  

 

or clamoring 

loud as we can 

for a savior,

we'd rather flail 

our legs until 

our grip has collapsed, 

then curse the long- 

gone villain to our 

very last breath.  

A REASONABLE FACSIMILE

Are there thoughts 

we can't think? 

Are there 

elevated spaces 

where the likes of us 

are not invited? 

Or dispositions 

so base—winged, fork-

tongued emotions 

with scales 

for skin and garish 

horns on their faces—

that to sanction their 

attainment would 

be tantamount 

to damnation? 

Such a blanket blockade 

is itself hard 

to imagine.

(Hard, yes—but not 

impossible. 

We are permitted, 

it would seem, 

to conjure—if not 

dragons—then at least 

their descriptions 

and pictures.)

CHORES

This is not 

a request. And it's 

not a proposition. 

A duty 

is not 

transferable, 

or open 

to negotiation—only you 

can do 

what has got to 

get done. You must 

grab a hold 

of this man

whom you've become,

this person 

whose life you've 

tramped upon,

whose corners 

you've frayed and seams 

you've rent—

take it 

and string it up fast 

like a rug 

to that razor-

thin line in the sky 

of tough love—take it 

and beat it 

clean again. 

SECOND WIND

The instant 

our ship finally 

grinds to rest 

on the rocky beach-

head of true

hopelessness, 

we're more than a little 

nonplussed 

to discover it's 

far less depleting 

than we'd been led 

to suspect.

Turns out, 

even despair 

feels like 

arriving somewhere;

and, tired 

and filthy 

and hungry 

though we are,

we still eagerly 

throw the ship

in park and 

go explore. 

180

Everyone wants 

their own 

sudden epiphany,

but often, 

what's required first 

is something more like 

a revelation 

in reverse. 

That is: not 

in a flash, 

but something more

like a dirge, 

some judgement 

or conviction 

about which we 

used to be so sure 

gradually loses all its 

upward momentum 

and lazily, 

inexorably falls 

back to Earth;

like a very nearly- 

grand slam crack

that drops 

an inch before 

the centerfield wall, 

some suspicion 

or assumption 

that we used to call 

a fact

gets softened 

and lightened into 

just another fiction  

before it can 

smother us all.

CRUX OF THE MATTER

It's astounding for an eye 

at the boundary 

to behold

such majestic, 

relentless rotational 

symmetry. Unimaginable,

yet ravishing 

how much faith 

gets bestowed 

from one's perch 

at the edge on one point 

in the middle. 

It's more than a little 

unnerving, in fact, 

how over-

enthusiastically 

all we know is turning

around the black 

hole of a premise that 

there's one thing 

that won't. 

DEAR COMPULSIONS

What would my life be like 

without you? 

(It's actually

hard to imagine 

without being 

forced to.)

I wonder: 

are you always 

so sure of yourself? Or

is it just that, when compared 

with my thoughts, yours

know better? (At least,

so you somehow manage 

to assert 

without a word.)

And how do you 

sleep at night, o 

monkey on my back? (I mean,

aren't you afraid 

I might, some day, 

roll over?) More importantly, 

how do I sleep either 

without those

ceaseless reminders

for six or seven dark hours

who I am—why 

I matter?

SOMETHING

There is always something 

indescribable 

in the need you 

feel to write things down—

something unsayable 

in the sounds

your mouth must 

use to say so.

It's something about a raven 

(or a crow, 

more likely)

always pecking 

the peripheral, always 

needling away 

at the corners 

of your temples; 

something about 

your penchant 

for holding your breath 

well past 

the point of discomfort, 

to distress

just to sharpen 

to the point of exhilaration

the pleasure of setting it 

free once again; 

something 

about finding divine-

ly comic inspiration 

traced out by wandering 

motes of dust 

in the window-

stretched light of a 

tapioca sun—the same sun 

that has lulled you 

into happy, ochre 

thoughts of love—

the same sun 

that must burn until 

it swells 

up and 

kills everyone.

TO FUTILITY

There is still so much 

left to affect

in this life, 

and (I know) 

not enough left 

of time, sweat, and blood.

But still, I must bask 

in the gravity 

of walking; 

still I must claim 

every breath

as a trust,

as a flame 

on a votive candle, 

lit in thanksgiving,

as a theme song 

for the wildness

and the honor of everything—

for the privilege 

of knowing that all of this 

began with light, 

and that all, 

as it must, will end 

in dust.

My clavicles 

and the gray of my 

temples may be showing,

aged 

by their prematurely-

accumulated grace;

my bones may be softer,

my pace may be 

slowing—but still 

I draw 

the next breath. 

Still I will keep going.

OVER MY DEAD BODY

A change of heart 

is the hardest thing 

to hold out for. 

A mind may 

just be so inclined 

by the new light 

of facts or data 

charts, but alas, 

there are 

no counterparts 

in atonement, 

forgiveness, and

reconciliation.

no great 

conflagration of patience 

and time;

no new information 

or updated priors,

will ever counteract 

the resolve

of an organ 

that would sooner 

get attacked

than get made 

into a liar.

FIRST PERSON SINGULAR

In the beginning—

before the word—

there must 

first have been 

the relation 

between stillness 

and vibration, 

between plain air 

and the very first 

breath's aspiration. 

Then, 

out of silence 

and isolation 

came the merely judicious 

deployment

of solitude; 

past the unbounded, 

uncrossable gulf 

between humans

came, not even

the God's 

truth, but just 

the First 

Person Singular—

not wasting a moment 

in exploring 

its new power,

not singing, 

not laughing, 

but trying to 

solicit you. 

SOLO

Dear face 

in the mirror, what's 

it like

to weigh

nothing? 

What's it like 

to have no name? 

What's it like 

mouthing questions 

which you didn't first 

conceive? 

What's it like to be 

a slave—

always locked 

into a stare, always 

getting 

it all backwards, 

always placed

in a slight 

square of space 

which is nowhere? 

Is it worth it 

to show up here 

first thing 

every morning? And

anyway, how 

far away 

is it, I wonder, 

from here— 

where I doubt-

lessly stand—to right 

there?

ON THE SOUL AND ITS ORIGIN

The question 

I ponder, but 

could never dare

confront

is never: excuse 

me, is there

anybody in there? 

It's more like: 

how many? 

And where 

did everybody 

come from? 

And: are you all 

politely

taking turns

denying my 

inquiry for all 

its absurdity? Or 

(and here, please, god 

bless the auspicious-

ness of my ignorance)

lambasting me 

with silence 

in simultaneous 

reply?

TO THE BLUE SKY—

how is it 

you remain 

so light 

and wide and 

gaping 

all the time? 

Always exposed; 

always 

so susceptible 

to the slightest 

perturbations 

and super-

saturation with 

Earthly imposters?

Unlike you, I'd

make a poor 

open sore: 

I'm too often 

oppressed 

by the absence 

of low pressure;

I too

quickly grow 

uncomfortable 

with my own lack 

of obscurity. 

SUNNY SIDE

          Keep on the sunny side, 

          always on the sunny side

          keep on the sunny side of life.
          It will help us every day, 

          it will brighten up the way
          if we keep on the sunny side of life.

          —Carter Family

Doesn't matter

how spare 

or how dense 

the situation gets;

in either case, 

we're told 

to bear 

the stress

and make the 

most of it. 

Our agonies

increase

from exquisite 

to intense—

our green pastures  

now consist 

of just a fraction 

of an inch—

and still 

we feel the pull 

to flex a smile 

and claim we're 

cool with it—

as though 

our acquiescence 

fed the wolf 

or paid the rent—

as though 

we earned 

our blessings 

just by saying we've 

been blessed. 

LEAP

It's true that 

some of the most 

beautiful hymns 

never find their way home; 

yes, the promised land

 exists, but it is

full of empty cans 

and ghosts.

And don't even ask 

how many good deeds 

never get off the ground, 

because there are loads

of them rotting 

in the fields as we speak,

or else packed 

in an attic, gathering dust. 

But still, you must 

try to do the 

next right thing, 

even when you fear 

the failure of your body 

to endure the cost;

even when you're 

sure it's useless;

even when you 

don't know 

what to say, it 

doesn't matter—for 

not every 

desperate blunder 

spurs us on to failure;

not every prayer 

that flounders 

is lost.

REVIVAL

As if a 

monolith 

from above,

true beauty 

needs nothing—

perfect 

in itself, 

there's no favor

you could grant it. 

Love, 

on the other hand, 

is a beggar 

and a miscreant; 

it shouts 

in the streets, 

yet it preaches 

no doctrine;

it narrows 

your options, so 

you have to 

keep feeding it. 

But you cannot 

convert to it 

in a beatific 

instant—it has 

to be chosen 

new, moment 

after moment. 

SOCIAL EXCHANGE

How the hell 

am I supposed 

to tell which 

of my parts I 

should clutch

close to me, and 

which I should 

give with a wide 

open heart?  

Nothing in here 

has instructions 

or earmarks—plus, 

it's too hard 

to tell the difference 

between grasping

a thing and 

giving it up 

when every fretted 

gesture goes down 

in the dark. 

TO YE OF LITTLE FAITH:

Take heart. Little faith 

is not really such a 

bad thing;

yes, it's effort-

lessly shaken—

but then

again, it's just as 

casually regained. 

Besides, regardless 

of what 

Frost says, 

it's a waste 

and indecorous 

to harbor grand convictions 

about sustaining 

strained relationships 

or asymmetrically 

favoring 

the cost 

which you've already 

sunk into your chosen way—

instead of the road 

not taken.

SHELL GAME

Funny how
the more we think

we've got it
figured out,

the less we expect
the next

day—hour—
minute

to grift
our rube souls

with a wink
and a smile.

See now: how even 

the light—

which we're pretty sure
is permanent—

is not
without guile—

pretending

as it does

to always stand
still.

STAY HUMBLE

It's tough 

being tender—

no joke

to be unripe.

So why not 

throw greenness 

and ignorance 

some rope? 

It's automatic

to grow graceful, 

intelligent, 

mature—but

it's hard work 

to know that 

before you 

even learn.

DID YOU HEAR THAT?

If everything we did 

was music, then 

even 

our silence 

would contain 

tacit fragments 

of protest 

and exuberance—

even our gutless 

assent and resignation 

would thrum 

with the remnants 

of our lust 

for disobedience—

even our 

acceptance 

would squeal VETO!

like a trumpet.

But hey, wait 

a minute: listen 

back again—

doesn't it?

KOYANNISQATSI

I like 

to think my mind 

moves pretty quick, 

but I'm 

shamefully slow 

wherever 

words are concerned. 

If only you 

and I could speak 

in those 

broken chord 

arpeggios 

like the kind 

Philip Glass chose 

for a film with 

no speaking roles. 

Because really, it's just 

there 

in the shimmering 

depths to which

talk won't go

where 

tender, nameless, 

feeling grows.

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU ANCHOVIES

To the even-

tempered fish 

who once 

were minding 

their own business

as placid blades 

of bluish silver 

foraging in 

brackish water—

but who now 

lie splayed 

out end-

to-end inside 

this golden

pull-tab can: 

it's a shame about 

your heads, but 

do you really 

even miss them? 

I used to think

I would 

for sure. But 

I don't seem to

know anymore.

INTERCOURSE

These conversations never go 

as smooth as 

you would hope. 

But then: even the water 

that flows 

from the tap, 

at some scale (you

must admit), is 

full of gaps—so

the same must hold true

for the very air 

you exhale—

to say nothing

of those quips, 

which initially set sail

with such zeal

on each rocky 

and pockmarked gale 

(each one assuming 

a placid landing,

and each intended 

to sound juicy 

as a ripe fruit), but which 

rather quickly 

find themselves 

marooned 

and full of pits.

DIRTY WORK

If emotion 

is a skill, we are novices, 

all—apprentices  

to passion until 

the day we are retired. 

Those magical potions 

we strive to learn 

and perfect—

drafts of warmth 

and respect for one another—

are diluted  

in solutions of pure frustration,

sugared dust of tenderness 

bound-up 

in poison lust.

Even the lightning-

strike hex 

of our grief 

gets obscured by 

anger, self-

pity, disbelief—to say nothing of 

the willow wand 

of love, which, at the slightest

touch, combusts. 

Nowhere does there seem to be 

so much as a journeyman we  

can learn from. 

Surely, in the absence 

of some reprimanding master, 

a job like this 

will be the 

death of us.

DIRGE

Like a black 

hole in deep 

space, 

only the assumed shape 

of goneness 

can be found

in the heat 

glow of tacit 

bereft regrets, 

unarticulable  

laments, 

and relieved 

not-yets—which 

in our silence, 

tend 

to spiral,

iridescent,

all around it. 

POSTMORTEM

In our personal lives,

it takes 

less than a second 

to make 

the decision 

that unleashes 

the pandemic 

which defies 

vaccination. 

But even with 

hindsight expanding 

our compassion,

we question

how much longer 

the forgetting 

will take. It seems

that wishing, 

as we did, when 

we were young 

and health 

was given 

for such

stable, contiguous, 

durable lives 

might have been 

our first 

mistake.

CLEMENCY

In the frosted 

gloom again

at the knife-edge 

of freezing, 

when

even the rain 

is starting to rain—

and where 

even the shadows 

will not follow

where you're walking—

the usual tingle 

at the base 

of your neck 

feels less like 

the shiver 

you remember from before 

and more like 

the potent 

that, despite your 

nonacceptance—and 

to your grim displeasure—

somewhere far 

away from here 

right now, you're 

being prayed for.

TRESPASSED AGAINST

As often, 

outdoor solitude 

invites the incursion, 

just after 

dawn, of one 

dismal, haughty crow 

who damns

from the dormer with her 

strident proclamations, 

disrupting

my nascent and

fragile meditation. 

Savor your 

idea of today 

while you can,

goes her dread-

fully flip-yet-

incessant incantation, 

for no man's 

execution 

ever goes to plan.

STING OPERATION

For what feels 

like years, I've been 

staked-out 

on the perimeter. 

I've been quiet, still,

and careful not to 

ruffle any of the local 

toughs' feathers. 

I've refined 

my hypotheses, 

appointed 

all my deputies, 

cleaned and maintained 

my surveillance equipment. 

I've got mirror shades, 

caution tape, 

thermoses, 

toothpicks. 

The mic's hot 

and strapped-on 

underneath a layer 

of Kevlar.

Any minute now, 

I'll chance upon 

the character I'm 

looking for: 

I will catch 

the strange 

man I'm afraid 

I'm becoming 

red-handed 

in the act 

of relaxing 

for a change. 

EQUITY

After years spent 

waiting for 

impoverishment to worsen 

or ignorance 

to lessen—

for tall ships 

which tread the air 

to bear us 

away or 

strand us here, 

the truth of who 

and what we are 

may finally strike us 

as priceless 

in its ordinariness: 

our ticket 

to ride has been 

punched all along, 

and we've already 

taken what the world 

has to offer.

Every moment 

has a diamond in it; 

we are all 

so rich 

that nobody is. 

NABOKOV'S FAVORITE WORD IS MAUVE

          Nabokov used the word “mauve” 44 times 

          as often as one would expect.

          —Ben Blatt, in The Guardian

Do you think it was love 

of mauve that 

drove Nabokov, 

or merely the need 

to state things 

in-betweenly:

how even this rough 

life's most 

beautiful bruises 

are paler 

than purple, yet murkier 

than pink—and how

even the cleanest idea 

we tend to eye 

suspiciously

and can't resist giving it 

just the littlest shove 

with our lips? 

A REPRISAL

Ancient 

yet childish—

nebulous 

but explicit—

the January wind 

has been

bellowing again,

shellacking 

its admonishing 

breath of right angles 

onto every 

svelte branch 

and bare,

contoured avenue 

and lambasting 

all who dare

navigate those streets 

for things 

we didn't do 

in that bygone year—

but meant to. 

JANUARY UPRISING

If a life must be such 

that its winter always comes—

and with it, 

the bitter, lonely terminus

of nakedness in 

shadowed cold—

in lieu of prostrating 

and dreaming of June, 

let me end it

noiseless, focused, breathless, 

and standing on my own 

two feet—

just like every naked, fearless 

tree I've ever seen.

HOMEBODY

Like the potpourri 

of states which 

comprise some sprawling country, 

there are states 

of mind, too, which aren't 

so easily reached.

A Floridian

thinks twice before day-

tripping to Alaska—so 

who are you 

to expect your native 

worry and despondency 

to impulsively 

agree to go and 

rent a tandem bike 

and joyride their way 

to the border 

of equanimity? 

PACKAGE INSERT

Warning: hyper-

focus on anything

as precious 

as consciousness—

as ethereal

and mysterious  

as this inkling 

we exist—

may make it feel

from the inside 

like the smallest

loss is total. 

To one day 

be ordered 

to slip off

the coil will

of course sound 

unconscionable—but 

even to sleep 

(with its mere

"perchance"

of dreaming) 

may at best

seem a gamble—

and at worst, 

a betrayal. 

A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE

Every time 

a cell splits, do you think 

it hurts? 

Most creatures 

I've encountered 

would sooner die 

than be divided, 

yet somehow, all our 

littlest pieces 

suffer just this 

without the slightest 

demur. 

There is much 

to be learned from this 

lack of histrionics, I suspect—

and yet still, 

my eyes prefer 

to linger 

on the ravings 

of Hume to 

biology books—

and I'm quick 

to assent to 

destruction of the world 

in order to spare 

the scratching 

of my finger.

THAT IS NOT THAT

It's hard 

to understand 

just how much 

space expands 

as soon as its

collapse 

is grasped. 

The clockwork 

movement 

of the gears 

can't move anyone 

to tears 

unless they 

observe 

that there 

aren't any gears.

In other words: 

the rapture 

of freedom 

only comes 

with admittance 

that there's nothing 

whatever to be 

captured—or to capture. 

It's a pittance 

when you 

comprehend 

that all of this

is emptiness..

But fortunes 

are brokered 

whenever 

you notice that

emptiness 

(nonetheless)

appears. 

POTENTIALITY BITES

Most would envy a god 

who lives on 

all branches of the wave function. 

But in truth, this poor deity—

this miserable goblin, this 

hideous demon—

would be nothing 

like even the 

worst of us

who still feel pride 

when looking back 

on a well-chosen action.

For a creature 

as all-powerful and 

all-piteous as this

would be shackled  

to its own cache 

of ruinous knowledge 

that even good choices 

place hard limits on 

experience—

that each 

lucky break, every 

pleasant interaction 

must deny an infinity 

of beautiful things 

its existence.

DEAD RECKONING

Many winter nights, 

instead of seeking 

pardon—

or, in lieu 

of the warmth of 

reconciliation, 

simply to sooth and 

unburden one another—

we stagger as sailors 

alone out of doors 

and search the night 

sky for our 

direction. As if 

the constellations 

even grasped their 

own existence.

As if those storied

pictures in the stars

owed any explanation 

or solace 

to ours.

UNDO

Chalkboard erasers, pink 

rubber, back-

space keys: all 

handy certainly, but 

what do we really 

know about their nature? 

It seems like

every erasure we 

could possibly make 

still leaves crumbs 

in its wake and/or

takes extra work—so

how the hell 

do we presume 

to ruin 

the fact that 

we never should have 

acted at all? 

Is there really any 

positive action 

we can undertake 

that will ever 

add up to complete

subtraction 

and grant us our

sacred lost 

energy back? 

PURSUANT TO YOU

I suppose it’s cruel 

of me to 

hide the homemade 

smile I used to use 

to move you 

from dubious 

to close to me. But then,

even the frayed 

ends of this 

chase require fuel. 

Alone at the finish (my having, 

at last,  

won the race)

with my bare 

face pressed against 

the glass 

that overlooks 

the cage you once named 

your favorite place, 

I think it's safe 

to admit 

to the silent 

pool of frosty gray 

that you've 

long since 

stopped chasing me anyway,

and I've 

long since lost 

my cool.

WISDOM

It's not, as supposed, 

that the youth 

do not know 

that they're all going to die 

without their teeth 

in the end. No,

the real designation 

of those who are 

giving,

and tender, 

and finespun, and 

slight enough 

to be young 

is: they don't understand that, 

until the end comes, 

they'll be 

more than willing 

to pull out each molar, 

one 

after the other—just 

to keep living.