Friday, March 29, 2024


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 

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 
of the opposite. 

Thursday, March 28, 2024


To the old scythe-
nosed crow, half-cackling, half-

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 

Wednesday, March 27, 2024


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?

Tuesday, March 26, 2024


There's a part of me 
whose only function 

is to keep two 
other parts from

It's clean, transparent 
and made 
out of something 

resembling light—only 

more gossamer, 
less well 

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. 

Monday, March 25, 2024


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 

Friday, March 22, 2024


Ever notice? 
The things we 
can't grasp

are the ones 
that we covet. 

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 
significant underneath, 

rather than 
the blander guts 

of deep-
ly intelligent matches. 

Thursday, March 21, 2024


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 

in lieu of showing it off 
to their wearied 
fellow travelers

and/or feting it 
with their eloquence? 

Wednesday, March 20, 2024


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. 

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 

what it would be like
to stop

overthinking this
and, just for 

a bit, over-
feel it instead.

Tuesday, March 19, 2024


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 

Monday, March 18, 2024


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) 

when the language 
of flowers 
would not just inform,

but truly overwhelm 
the flowers 
of language. 

Friday, March 15, 2024


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. 

Thursday, March 14, 2024


By now, I've said 
[your name]
out loud 

so many times in a row, 
that it's done meaning 

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. 

Wednesday, March 13, 2024


Your love: 
it's so much 
like a dream

that I'm never sure 
how long 
it lasted, 

or what it was 
to mean.

Tuesday, March 12, 2024


Finding I'm faced 
west at sunset 
and alone, I understand 

how the only 
things I've ever owned 

are the failures, mistakes, and 
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.

Monday, March 11, 2024


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. 

whom I know beyond
the darkest  shadow 

of reason 
that I must love,
even though

your existence 
I will never be able 
to prove. 

Friday, March 8, 2024


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.

Thursday, March 7, 2024


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,

the most impassioned 

writes the headline 
and the nomenclature. 

Wednesday, March 6, 2024


So, what then
is the difference 

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 

by subsisting here, 
at the tail-end of winter,

so cold, and so 
conscious, and so violent-
ly hungry. 

Tuesday, March 5, 2024


The softest pedal 
on the piano 
must be down, 

smearing those unhurried 
into clouds—

ly shaped formations, 
barely there, 

but half-occluded 
by devotion's 
hungry shadow 

my impatience 
and every expectation 

to have 
moments ago 
outgrown this fascination 

and snapped 
back off 
the radio. 

Monday, March 4, 2024


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.  

Friday, March 1, 2024


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 

We are permitted, 
it would seem, 
to conjure—if not 

dragons—then at least 
their descriptions 
and pictures.)