RENDER

As some mothers 

eat their young—

as an electron spits 

and then swallows 

its own photons—

so time 

first stretches, 

makes life's landmarks 

look distinct; 

then,

comes back 

hard

and fast 

and smashes them all flat 

as we hurry nervously 

on. 

*

Does faith find you

pushing 

certain words 

to the foreground?  

Bending and posing 

them like double-

jointed dolls? 

Wherefore 

this desire 

to bathe and clothe 

bewilderment,

to render 

unto sound,

to reconcile 

at all? 

*

Before I pose 

another question, 

let's define our terms: 

just because we 

"exchange" explanations 

doesn't mean 

we own them.

COMFORT—

the tender smell 

of steam 

as it's leaving

the potato.

DEFECTS

Strange to say 

"that's all 

in the past," since 

the past is 

not a location 

in space.

Even stranger, 

perhaps, that 

we have no access 

to the crucibles 

that made us 

the blades we are today.

Then again, it's not

our remembrance 

of the blaze 

that sustains us; it's 

the little imperfections—

those niggling 

and persistent 

small aches 

that remind us 

we're still 

the same weapons 

we were yesterday. 

CURRICULUM VITAE

Warm smoothness 

of a few slate gray 

pebbles on the mantlepiece—

so far away 

from their frenzied 

ocean past 

on this 

declassé tuesday 

that it might just not exist. 

Suddenly, the intent to dust 

around them fumes 

to reverie 

as you finger 

and fiddle for the whim

that bid you carry them:

never mind 

what's useful 

or true; a life 

is all 

about what's 

necessary. 

OF THE ESSENCE

Time is not so nice 

and benign as 

a flat circle; 

time is a screwlock, 

a pitiless vice, 

extracting the vigor, 

then discarding 

the pulp of life.

The longer we may live, 

the more we may 

grow horrified

at our resign as it flays

with its inexorable knife 

the gory- 

yet-nourishing 

gristle of the details

and winnows away 

the now- 

obvious chaff

of what once mattered 

so intensely to us,

but which we 

must finally admit 

to be dust.

TERMS

The wider

your gaze, the more 

it becomes clear 

that the universe behaves 

like a simple equation 

in which the terms 

on either side are mirror

images of each other. 

Perhaps this is why 

you and I can exist 

on opposite sides 

of a sagital plane, 

yet still dream 

the same dreams;

still laugh 

at the same memes;

still remain, at all times, 

so perfectly in sync. 

Because ours, 

like all systems,

is a complex operation—

a galactic 

combination-factory-

floor-and-call-center. 

Or no—

it's a starved dog 

jonesing for bones, 

excitedly pulling 

in all directions at once.

Which, of course, 

is another way of saying 

it goes nowhere. 

INTERMISSION

While you just sit 

and listen 

in the sixty-

second eye of the storm 

known as noon, 

the last desperate chime 

of church bells—

keening, 

then dissolving 

in the ambient mist 

reminds you of 

(or perhaps 

replaces?) 

the weight 

of your grief and dis-

consolation. 

For to whom 

on this earth 

does a silent moment

answer? 

Though you're perfectly still, 

some part of you 

dances.