AD-LIBBING

Weird how they say—

it's not until 

your soul is full 

that it's finally light 

enough to fly 

and dance away

all the torment 

and dolor 

which you have amassed

in this

infamous life, 

often at the whim or 

displeasure 

of others—only 

this time, 

when it dances, it 

dances alone, 

because it's been 

blamed for so long, it's no 

longer ashamed, 

and it's finally 

racked up enough practice 

and poise 

that it isn't afraid 

to improvise.

NEW GRIEF

Though this pain which 

now blooms like a 

purplish bruise 

is both 

indescribably yours 

and new, 

rest assured 

that the black mouth of woe 

from which it sprung 

is everyone's

to plumb, and is

terribly old—for none

are loved more 

than those lost 

to our sight, and 

no truth bites

the living quite 

like: everything dies.

THE PACKAGE INSERT

When you pass 

by another, it's 

probably best 

to avert your eyes 

or keep them 

downcast—

that way, 

you'll miss the slight 

tremble of presence 

which you'd be 

almost certain 

to glimpse there—

and which might, 

in turn, fill you 

with an urge to possess  

all of that clemency, 

love, and 

benevolence 

you have been 

heretofore 

highly successful

and almost 

content to be 

living without.

A THING BEGUN

The burden of grief
would be easier 

to bear, I think

if only it were a little more 

exhaustive 

in its slaughter;

if the knife blade 

were longer 

and a little bit sharper,

then the agony would be briefer

and the torture

might be over. 

But alas, 

as it stands, it's just

too incomplete; 

there are lapses 

where we sometimes sing

from hymnals in the evenings, 

or find ourselves undone 

by some small 

accomplishment hard-won, 

or loose track of the strain 

which was placed 

on our shoulders 

while we're marched 

through the detours 

of loveliness and laughter.

REVOCABLY YOURS

When mornings 

start wavering 

out of existence, 

not yet gone, 

but long since 

in going, 

why do I

keep my mind fixed 

on their glimmering 

as a watch stopped dead 

at set 6am—contemptuous 

of noon? 

Would I starve in the wilderness  

to spare the strange, wonderful

plumage of its birds?  

Will I try to impose 

such a static thing as 

beauty 

on the aggressive-

ly protean

soul of this world?

SLOW CLAP

Too coolly, the hours 

drift past while you cogitate, 

inaudible, colorless, 

and unable to be named.

The sound of nobody's voice 

ignites jealousy 

as you talk,

like a stone might, 

to the gravity of the situation: 

How the hell did any of us 

get to essence 

from before?

Was there light 

before breath? Your heart fights

to remember. 

Or is no one 

led back home 

by the slow claps and low talk 

which they heap on 

fallen heroes 

as they're cast into 

the after?

THRENODY

Stone-blind, we carried you 

past the boundaries 

of our apprehending,  

trying, still, to recognize 

some sense 

in the invisible.

Oath-deaf, 

we dug tunnels for dark hours 

under sympathy, 

emptying our heads

of its ringing 

significance 

and filling them 

instead with the glory 

of its grief.

Then, mutely, we agreed—

there are still songs 

left to be written, but we 

won't know how they'll 

go until we catch 

our children singing.