big surf days
the horizon akimbo
music through
the open window
slack-keyed
as the palms bend
under the weight
of all this sunset
January 8
It encloses and divides
of course not just physically
say them and we become
us because of what
we are not–
imply danger
like an impatient shadow
which makes this safety
but not for much longer–
so what has changed?
The sun got lower.
Sell it quickly
there is no time, suddenly
no time to lose–
loss is arriving
so deny it
be afraid so they
become fearsome
discredit suffering
or accept the precarious–
was any of this earned?
This side of the sunset
and so not that
could it be
so arbitrarily that
the lots are drawn?
Like a line on a map
in the sand–
you have to draw it
somewhere or else
it wouldn’t exist
and then where
would we be?
And who?
December 22
this day was longer
than the day before it
late filtered sun
on snow-laden trees
winter is textural
rime ice and powder
everything built
upon another
cold pastiche
this punched out step
in a snowfield
an irreversible mark
sharp punctuation
but not indelible
this night this storm
will erase it
nothing lasts
not even nothing
December 18
Such a long long way
to go and still think
maybe not–
call it a joke
or call it a knife
it gets the point across
.
Real snow recently
deep stuff
cathartic erasure
a blank slate
for a blank stare
for whatever can’t be said
.
Hesitation is an answer
delay is an answer
even silence is an answer
yes, it can be heard–
in the depths of the glades
my ears were ringing from it
December 8
Blink and it’s gone
the gingko bare, not golden
any old tree now
another bleak gray day
could be any Northern city
really from this low height
every houseplant
shoved up by the window
for the the briefest glimpse
of light, probably too cold
and dry for the orchid
but mild discomfort
soft complaint
that’s how you know
you’re alive
the crepe jasmine
that never unfurls
its blooms,
waiting for something
that never
arrives, sometimes
it hurts to look at it
December 5
With each night
the question
grows more pronounced
curving around
like a road
a sharper turn
than expected
headlights
only reaching
so far
forward motion
the only certain thing
November 23
the rain eased up
the cold persisted
holiday evenings
and not enough chairs
hey so when are you…?
a battery of questions
some blunted by the years
some softer, owing
to wisdom, knowing
what not knowing
for years means
a bridge washed out
a road not finished
even yes can mean no
when prized
out like a stuck door
unburdened by solace
by desire
it isn’t speakable
so just smile
too widely
turn one’s attention
to the fire
that is dying
all heartwood
no kindling
it’s filling the room
with smoke
November 20
If not resentment
what then? Tomorrow
a sulking rain.
Even without
an action
premonition
of motion
premeditated
carelessness
a glance might
linger or
it might be
furtive
but like
a glancing blow
it also lands
November 18
Stilled, the chills sets in
in fingers and toes and heels–
still, it seems easier to stay
in so many ways,
yes, facile–
but the sky is cloudy
and the moon is half full,
what blame is there really?
No long shadows here,
regret like one too many,
only one, so easily walked back
and the sun tomorrow
outside this window is such
a ridiculous shade of gold–
generosity, magnimosity,
can’t look right at it, either
November 17
a game, to step around
the fallen leaves, to not
disturb the early hours
you can’t not face it
properly cold out now
and it isn’t a coincidence
if there’s a causal link
what comes next is mostly predictable
OPTIONAL POETRY 