CONSOLATION PRIZE

At last, this city's over-

zealously verdant 

parks and private gardens—

which, heretofore, were rich 

with their fulminating 

yellows, greens, and oranges—

have finally 

lost purchase 

on every last leaf 

and been stripped 

without notice 

of each pleasing flower.

What a bittersweet, 

almost punitive 

relief 

to see their great 

tiaras start to slip 

and fall to rust—

to watch lush fields crumple, 

and wither, and dim—

to finally begin 

to look as stricken 

as the rest of us.

SHARP RELIEF

Walking past, it is 

oddly 

consoling to see 

how the scant flowers 

still clinging 

have begun to look 

ridiculous:

raffishly waving 

on increasingly crisp 

persuasive breezes

and offsetting now,

from their frail 

and threadbare bushes, 

the garish Halloween decor 

which besots these 

nonplussed neighborhoods. 

How I wish 

all those other things 

I always fail to notice—

the moments 

when I'm standing 

right where I'm supposed to be, 

or feeling (mostly) 

contented 

with the small things 

I'm afforded—

could spring 

from the dregs of my 

mind like this

and make themselves 

conspicuous. 

THE INCUMBENT

Something very much like 

treasury mounds—

fortunes of wood chips 

and gold leaves and cinders 

over which 

a last few worker bees 

and rodent sentinels scurry—

are piled up high 

beneath this throne 

of the last remaining 

queenly robin: 

a bony

upturned hand of oak—

her sticky bare head, 

which once humbled her 

in spring, 

now her majestic 

autumn crown;

the trilling intermezzos 

of westerly wind, 

which once served 

as scourge of her 

balance in this place,

now flow about her 

in decorous folds: a royal 

byzantine cloak.

LATE OCTOBER SUNSET POEM

Think of it: 

"redness" isn't even 

a thing that exists.

And yet—there it is 

(or has 

got to be, anyway),

darkening your mind

with its 

quiescent images:

this defensible suicide 

every evening 

around six; 

this florid vermilion 

of courage—

not panic—

as half the planet 

placidly 

turns its back 

on the face 

of that slowly 

asphyxiating man.

GUESSWORK

When it's time 

to pry open 

the fissure between 

the fierce buttress 

known as 

how it works 

and that redoubtable mainstay 

why it is, 

the trick 

is to use only the unconscious 

tips 

of those devious fingers 

your mind must employ  

to cover the eyes  

while it tickles 

your soul; 

anything less 

than bewilderment

is useless—it is 

far more enriching 

to suspect 

than to know.

EN GARDE

One must learn to be cautious 

in knowing 

what one knows 

never to swing it around 

too judiciously, 

for the known 

forms such a smooth-worn, 

hospitable hilt

that the deadliness 

and weight 

of all 

to which it's 

invisibly attached 

are about as salient 

to the hapless wielder 

as the mythic holy spear was 

to a naive boy 

like Parsifal. 

One likes to think 

one can cup the situation 

in one's hands—

or grasp

the thing in itself 

on demand, 

but the truth is that 

none of us can ever reach 

to touch the tip 

or finger the edge 

of the blade unscathed; 

all we can do 

to the facts of the matter is 

grab for their 

ready-made 

handles.

ASKING TOO MUCH

Those very rare 

moons, which ought to be 

waning 

but instead 

go on, wraithlike, unmercifully 

hanging, 

all distorted 

with the somnolent haze 

of pollution 

til you'd swear 

they were fuller, and much

nearer by than usual—

only prove to me now, 

as I pull the shade down on this 

last apartment window, 

how I've never loved those 

whom I've lost 

half as well 

as I do on the nights 

when I know they're not

close.