Still light as day this late the urge to linger is compelling a cesura and June gives way like a sandbank I should pack it’s not even that hot but these days there is a muggy weight to motivation why change these hours are made to sit and make plans to pin the days in place tomorrow is a new day but it isn’t here yet
A bowl of limes in Mexican pewter its lines drew me at the thrift store coarse engravings a primordial river and lighter than it looks . A lime tree does better in drought than in abundance deprivation at its sour heart although with so much juice it’s tempting to say sweetness of course it isn’t but is also not bitter the childlike green belies the nuance . It is a promise in a way to […]
Cool breeze riling the curtains the green seclusion of a melon summer is a visitor more than anything else evasive as that dream right upon waking, cut as it was ripening . In the yard we drank a thin tempranillo a dragonfly hung by with mirage wings and rhubarb stalks wilted in omnipotent heat no silence is alike varietals and temperaments and these the hands of a graceless vinter . Still light late warm skin […]
A hematoma where the shot went in, sore arms and clouds– that kind of aching morning that passes too quickly into day, piebald sky, the palest blue, a tepid invitation. And down to the waterfront the sound of progress, or of progression, metal frames sprouting up, or expulsed from the earth– a shower of sparks by the welder’s elbow, a joint, a joint is where you feel it first, a change in the weather, a […]
Where does it come from? The sky, like rain, or from the far corner at night, when the world is rendered in ground glass, from outside, a front, low pressure or high– I’ve never believed in inexorable, but these days do give me pause . As Simon said to Garfunkle, I get the news I need on the weather report and as God said to Noah, hey, you better build a boat, although charitably, a flood could be billed as […]
The gingko, green fractal reaching in the breeze– there is geometry in a quiet evening, seen and unseen structures– the sky dimming like a screen, still blue, still blue, and the arc of a jetliner, the beams and girders of the closest build site, its lightbulbs, tungsten, in metal cages, old and comforting, just that one room lit, not even a room yet, a prototype, the lack that comes before, that emptiness that is at […]
a roadside stand cherries in their sunburn hues the sky and the Chevy flat baby blue the clouds roll right off and crooked birds fall into paper hills and sometimes nothing is what comes from nothing some mylar sheeting a layer of dust
Our eyes seeing the same, our ears hearing the same, Our touch making and unmaking the same world. Not one, divided in two, not two, united in one: The second I, so that I may be conscious of myself. from Father Ch., Many Years Later, Czeslaw Milosz
Cool morning rain on the cusp of summer, on cobblestones and chairs and tables, water beading up on the laquer. So welcome sometimes, the dissenting voice– a change, a sea change, for better or worse it arrives like an empty plaza, this is the setting, the play can begin
if I should buy a shirt your color and put on a necktie sky-blue where would they carry me?
OPTIONAL POETRY 