AHA MOMENT

Under the shade 

of the hackberry tree,

new leaves—light 

as ideas, and just 

as elemental—

are proffered down 

in patterns which 

resemble complex sentences.

Perhaps existence 

is not a given thing;

it's known, after all,

that the heart 

must be 

gradually grown—so, 

wouldn't the soul,

too, have to be

eventual?

DOGGY

Great, great 

grand descendant 

of the noblest race 

of beasts—

you who deigned 

to live at our feet, 

but who never ate

of that fruit—

your soul 

is pristine, so 

how can it be 

that you too

are doomed to 

one day die?

HEALTHY BOUNDARIES

Next time you feel 

lonely, or

a bit unsure 

of how things fit 

together, 

remember:

your body is,

at all times,

precision-filled—

in fact, it's 

practically packed 

to the gills—

with miraculous 

acids and 

everlasting bases—

both of which 

are necessary—

in exactly 

equal measure—

and both of which 

are so movingly 

and desperate-

ly dependent 

upon one another

being there,

but also—always 

keeping clear.

IT'S LIKE THIS

Feelings 

can only be said 

to exist 

in relation 

(by comparison, 

that is) to one another. 

Therefore 

we must know, 

deep down, 

what bliss is—

since 

we cannot possibly be alone 

with this. 

*

Clipped phases 

seem to wander the brain 

like children 

in a dark forest. 

Even conjunctions—

those erstwhile 

breadcrumbs—

will not successfully join 

or contrast them. 

All paths to understanding 

overgrow 

and are erased. 

Only periodically 

now do they leave their cave 

and wander in circles, 

lost.

*

Every time I feel 

a disturbance, 

I might split 

and wind up in two places, 

retaining the former 

memory of both. 

Strangers in the hereafter? 

Perhaps—but 

accomplices, 

more so. 

GENTRIFICATION

As I burn through my days, 

I think a lot 

of all the bodies 

this weathered old soul 

must have tarried

through by now—but 

(probably due 

to the tyranny 

of memory) 

somehow not 

often enough 

of the opposite: 

what battle-scarred hoards, 

all strange 

and complex, 

have tossed their lots 

in with this 

broom closet body, 

seizing it, 

razing it, 

building it up—

then selling it off 

at a loss 

or a profit? 

GEE

Day after day, 

while you focus 

on the sun—

and others, from 

the sound of it, 

on the revving 

of their engines—

those tight faces 

at the ends 

of the lilac bush branches 

remain blank 

and unresponsive 

to the choruses

of birdsong at dusk 

and dawn

and the quickening 

green of the adjacent 

park lawn. 

But of course, 

one morning, those grimaces 

will loosen 

and redeem 

their cached sweetness 

in busts of fragrant glee—

and you'll think how, 

in the grand scheme, 

it only takes a blink 

for everything  

to happen—

but an awfully long 

and difficult time 

for anything 

to mean. 

IMAGISM

Has anything ever 

come out 

the way 

you meant it to? 

Would any bright cocktail 

of gadabout words 

go down as 

rococo as 

your point 

of view?

*

Just tell them—

how the leaves 

looked black 

in the last light 

as the canopy 

and the loam beneath 

unhurriedly 

equalized.

*

At last, the night sky 

was so 

phosphorescent-bright 

with the staggering 

pollution 

of downtown lights 

that words 

had no meaning—

the rock bottom 

you were needing.