ALARM CLOCK

Every morning, I hear that
damn siren singing—with its inane
refrain repeating the lyric 

about existence
being a guarantee—of nothing
more or less than itself;

with its singsong-y melody rising
only to fall a little more tragically
due to the specific gravity

that comes from measuring
the density of a pound of love
suspended in a pound of duty;

its thick counterpoint of doubt
and certainty weaving the texture
of a certain wine dark area rug,

the one I've been drifting on—
the one I soon begin to see dimly
as the one I must

eventually abandon ship
and whip the soles
of my cold and disbelieving feet at

to discover once and for all
whether they'll stick there
or fall right through

and sink at last
into that ocean—of unabridged
sleep beneath.

BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS

I wonder—after we're pierced all over
with with the stupefying fingers
of proximate winter,
sterling bells ringing sharp as needles,

snow and ice fierce and extravagantly
silent as diamond
necklaces draping the blue neck napes
of the noblest pagan goddesses—

what on earth is there left
to feel?

Famous-sounding words like these
were never iterated
concerning noisy inchling birds in spring

or the stubbly bushes clinging
to the lurid face of autumn

and those stagnant summer
gutter puddles, all steeped burnt umber
with fermented dogwood leaves

would certainly make pretty unappealing
greeting card illustrations.

JEERS

Cheers—
to that most
magnificent glacier,

somehow
equally
aimless and dignified—

the imperceptible
pace at which our
styles changed,

so we could
always
wear the same size.

GRAND SCHEME

Outside the range
of salvation
army bells' stilted ringing,

the lows
approaching
record-setting—after dark,

you
and me
slowly stripping

in front of
our deadpan beds, feeling
pretty average.

FLOOR PLAN

Listen: somewhere off the hall,

a cramped bathroom 

faucet seems to be mumbling, 

an angel-

white radiator is crawling 

in a heap in the corner, weeping softly, 

a brusque fridge compressor 

is taking a grand pause—before 

launching into the adjacent movement;

true, maybe that's not 

the movement you signed up for. 

But that's the one you

could afford. That's the sound 

of everyone around you 

making of their inner lives, a song.

And look: you too 

are doing it. 

In your case, of course

it's just a tiny little song,

most well suited 

to a tiny little room—

but at least

it's got lots of wonderful pictures

of wide-open spaces 

someone in your 

family must have visited once

on its tiny little walls.

UNTESTED

Maybe I'm the secret
omnipotent king

of all the sunlight
resounds into
sight with its
triumphal song;

so benevolent!
and secure

and carefree—I've never once thought
to try
forbidding it to
do anything.

LUX AETERNA

That precious

brittleness

of a little 

white gash—can never 

hope to appease

the vast 

pestilence of black; 

that's why—it's
unceasingly  

encouraging 

to the observer—how 

redundant the stars are.