NO NEW THING UNDER THE SUN

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 

significance: 

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

and the public, 

less enthusiastic—instead 

of the opposite. 

MEMENTO

To the old scythe-

nosed crow, half-

cackling, half-rasping

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, at least 

can manage.

THE PROCESS

In the all-hell-busted-

loose wreck 

of late March, 

nature is no pleasing, 

no delicate thing—

in fact,

she looks more like 

a fiending 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 wet

fecund dross 

of her latest, most 

haphazard canvas

must wonder: am I looking 

at the end of something? 

Or is this just

the start?

THE BREATH

There's a part of me 

whose only function 

is to keep two 

other parts from

touching. 

It's clean, transparent 

and made 

out of something 

resembling light—only 

lighter, 

more gossamer, 

less well 

defined—

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. 

EX NIHILO

If the narrator 

of the this faded 

and arcane little book 

would deign 

to speak out, I'm quite 

sure they'd observe 

how every time 

you sniffed, I sneezed; 

how just after 

you itched, 

I scratched; and how

every time you 

got the urge, I danced. 

Not in space, of course—

not with my limbs sculpting 

glutenous time 

into readymade 

vessels or

operative gestures—but

all through the pages 

of our interiors

which contain the long story 

of how we came to be 

divorced. 

MISDIRECTION

Ever notice

how the things we 

can't grasp

are the ones 

that we covet?

Absences, 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 gossamer flashes 

of lust with 

nothing much 

stiffer underneath

rather than 

the blander 

but tougher guts 

of deep-

ly intelligent matches. 

GRANDSTANDING

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 

disaster 

in lieu of showing it off 

to their wearied 

fellow travelers

and/or feting it 

with their eloquence?