PRACTICAL EFFECTS

Mostly, our lives 

are the portraits 

of unglamorous—

they're like movies 

that can't stop forgetting 

their own plot twists. 

Yet,

there are days 

on the set 

when the sky is a halfway-

decent watercolor, 

the distant forest 

a matte painting 

so vivid and so still 

as to border on suspicious. 

And there, 

deep in shadows 

the color of ashes, 

soundtracked 

by the lapping 

smack of water 

and the drone of bees 

far too lazy to sting, 

we can't shake the feeling 

that the air we breathe 

has been keeping 

thick secrets; 

that maybe—just maybe, 

there might be 

something to this. 

THE GIST

As ever, it is early 

when I start upon 

my journey, 

and the trees 

to whom I've pledged 

to listen 

lean down 

with their heavy 

burden of sleep, 

branches still filled 

with the thick 

mist of night, 

and whisper to me 

in their rustling stupor 

in a language which 

no man could ever 

hope to speak 

because there is 

no code to decipher. 

So who am I 

to render any of this, 

I wonder—let alone 

interpret?

No being could record 

such ancient words—

and really, 

no one has to try;

no living thing 

need sightread 

the wind's song, since 

deep inside, they've 

already got it 

memorized. 

GOOD GIRL

Everything you do 

is done with 

full attention;

any action 

undertaken, 

anything you feel 

as unconcealed 

as possible—and 

generally successful. 

Most would call 

a life like that 

austere—strict meditation. 

But to brand it 

at all names the hair, 

not the dog—

besides, 

a simpler word 

is prayer. 

ACT OF CONTRITION

I suppose enough 

words have been 

wasted on this, but 

without the force 

of love's 

greed to restrain us, 

what downward 

pressure would 

ever be great enough 

to push us once 

or twice in a life

to our knees 

with such resolute 

and terrible ease—

what better place 

from which to see:

what better 

posture than this 

from which

to worship or 

to grieve? 

ON THE TIP OF MY TONGUE

Still feeling 

for words, 

as if with 

my fingers,

wishing I could 

hold on 

to the beat 

of each syllable—

but that pulse 

which runs 

though the veins 

of your name 

is weakening 

steadily, 

and the memory 

grows pale. 

Never mind 

desirable—

retirement 

is inevitable:

what's built will 

collapse—but 

what's built upon's 

still there. 

Corporeality 

fails and founders; it's 

only what's invisible 

that prevails. 

FUTILITY LOOKS

a lot like me 

with both hands cupped 

around my lips, as if 

trying to save 

one breath 

for the future—then 

flinging 

the door shut 

to the freezer 

where it's kept,

so that way, 

I won't have to 

chase it down 

and catch it 

at the end 

of that sentence,

with no liturgy left 

on which to depend

and no 

ritualistic dance step 

on which I might 

elaborate—

IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS

Ghost white 

gull feather, still 

gliding down:

teach me 

to love 

the world as it is now—

not as it was 

when you 

plied the wind above,

and not as it 

will be once you 

finally touch,

then softly 

push to move 

the ground.