LAST DAY OF AUGUST

Like the first time 

it weightlessly 

tugs on your mind 

that perhaps you've been 

hunched at one 

task for too long, 

the last day 

of August comes 

nosing around

to quicken the pulse 

of this shaggy, 

wistful midlife. 

Like a gentle, loving prod 

from a cool, 

wet muzzle 

it provokes 

a quick shiver—that first 

twinge of September, 

and a portent, 

without any basis 

in memory, 

that Death, 

in her glory, is certain 

to return here—

not as the heiress 

of this mild, 

mangy beauty,

but rather, once again, 

its hospitable 

mother.

GOLDBRICK

That blindspot 

on your retina; 

those pimples 

you deplore;

that stiffness in your hip 

which you stoically 

ignore—it's like: 

long ago, 

all at once, 

and for a 

limited time only, 

your life 

was a sweepstakes—a grand prize 

you were awarded.

After all the glamour 

and the wonderment 

of which, 

you realized,

to your horror, you'd be

totally stuck 

toiling, day 

after day after 

day, 

just for the means

to afford it.

BEST SELLER

By now, even if 

all you recorded 

was the tally 

of times 

you woke up in the morning 

and managed 

to heave your full

weight to the floor

without any 

insubordination—

or really

even questioning it—

you'd already 

have written 

a towering epic 

more impressive in scope 

and fidelity 

than Homer's, 

more fantastic

and lofty and bizarre

than Cervantes', 

and certainly 

several dozen, 

if not hundreds 

of pages longer 

than the number of days 

even Jesus

could afford.

BENEDICTION

Our days are infused 

with so much 

that's righteous

it'd ruin our ability 

to continue 

if we noticed. 

Doesn't matter 

who you've hurt

or how 

many times now—

morning birds will 

sing to you;

when you're driving 

through the night 

to escape from the truth, 

the impossible soup 

of atoms in the air 

will part 

to let you through 

and salute; 

and just when you think 

you are finally living 

on the last line 

of a prayer 

at the tail-end of time, 

tomorrow arrives 

without help, 

on a dime—

and there's nothing 

you can do.

RANDOM RULES

What if, 

in the beginning,

that first word 

which spoke itself

was deaf?

And the face 

that moved out across 

the surface of the ocean

was blind 

as a stone 

and couldn't feel 

the motion? 

After all, the trick 

with pure light 

is that it cannot 

be highlighted; 

it can ignite

or illuminate, 

but can never itself 

be lit. 

What if you live

in a universe 

like that—

where a thought 

(even the first

best thought 

which ever existed) 

could never 

be caught

and would have 

no idea, even if 

it could be, what 

it was 

on about?

EXIGENCY

Eventually, 

it must be alright 

to stop 

the irritable reaching, and just 

enjoy the night; 

to soak a while in Epsom 

and put balm 

on all your blisters, 

then tan 

for far too long

in front of the television. 

A few scented candles 

might 

be appropriate, 

and a little soft music 

to drown out the sound 

of all the innovations 

you dimly know 

you should be making, 

even as you feel 

the internal untying 

of thousands 

of taught, soaking strands 

of gray rope.

You think: 

who am I to reach 

for more 

than I can hold? 

God knows—

even Bach, 

despite all his 

brilliant leaping, 

sooner or later 

would always 

fall back

on the same old

dozen notes.

COMPASSION

In some ways, it isn't 

a very big thing; 

it's more like 

the faceted tip 

of a jewel—

that minuscule, 

razor sharp 

vanishing point 

where Kinship 

meets up with 

and annihilates 

the Individual.

It's a definite, 

and a desperate, 

and a weaponized 

kind of knowing—

like the way 

each blade of rain 

knows the river 

where it came from—

or a pair of stainless 

scissors knows 

the susceptiveness 

of paper—

or a small

desperate mammal,

who has built 

its mock nest 

under the hood 

of your Ford 

in the winter,

instinctively knows 

that it needs 

much more help

than it possibly knows 

how to ask for.