Waking with a burning throat
it’s the sun that changes
not the haze
a distinction worth
making? Who knows.
The sky bright opaque
some big eye’s sclera
and it doesnt blink
August 2
unvoiced words cast
as shadows
or wilting in the face
of the predictable response
or echoes of echoes
and all this weary smoke
settling over the city
towers and spires
the blood speck sun
thirst is nameable
but this is
not
.
the cloud distinctly a face
suspended over the far valley
blowing out a bellicose wind
and from the summit we watched
smoke churning up like
smoke there’s nothing else
so plain-spoken
yet indirect
billowing up
and then the mountains are gone
benign but no
it isn’t
.
dry-mouthed waking
it’s fine
it’s fine it’s fine
it’s August
just like that
and gets hot early
trudging up the hill
again
I break
into a sweat
July 18
a thirst and that way
weariness rests
just outside the eyes-
another rainless day
sun on green glass
oh the height of it all
a seagull seems
to fly low
here the trees
seem out of place
set pieces
this room
is mostly window
and open space
but some things
you just can’t fake
this song progresses
through common chords
characterize everything
as a wait
it sure doesn’t feel like arrival
nobody’s fault but mine
wine, and a summer
more than half gone–
what can I say?
the sky is perfect
this sky is perfect
it shames me for feeling
anything less
than joy
July 17
almost calm
this not yet night
a house it settles
but a city it calls
and calls like some
stray cat enamored
by want
and measuring out
the confines
of its alleys
June 21
tannin of disappointment
how it clings
like a soft bitter leaf
stains an evening
seeps into a day
full sun solstice
even here
longest day and longest
shadows
cast a stone
and ripples
cast a doubt
and the breeze
might not even be real
June 13
a day of too many
quiet rooms
no balm for it
words on a page
too linear
the page too square
all coming back to right
angles, edges, each a precipice–
if potential was
always positive
a heart would not
sink
June 11
back from the ocean
city night sounds
windows open
to let the night in
what else to say
it hums with some
energy not unlike
a tide
changing also
gradually but impossible
to refute
not unlike this sunburn
or how much
I’m missing you
June 8
this night is loud
the house continually
settling
a clatter of stars
or do they ring out
like fallen coins
to steal a moment
convincingly
there can be no hesitation
a minute must be
occupied completely
by nothing at all
a low jet-plane
and thoughts intrude
and now it is
just late
dawn coming head-on
from miles away
June 6
the way a summer day
lingers, and the night, too
a golden thing won’t go–
some minutes are a life
of possibility,
the breeze shakes the shades
and sunbeams shift
on the floor like seagrass
underwater, ephemeral,
summer, how many ways
it could go, or stay, first
cool of evening, but still light
out, birdcall and voices
from afar, and summer fruit,
the lazy sweetness of it all,
each hour rising up
like super-heated air,
the mirage on blacktop,
contrails, first stars
and crescent moons before the sun
even sets, too full, too
full, what hour could contain this
May 21
Late late morning
a ripple on the lake
a standing wave
or complicated wake
two lizards sunning
themselves
and not much else
to say, calm
and soft here, East
of the mountains
I watch descents:
parasails, quails
the crescent day moon
the onerous ray of sun
and spare a thought
for yours:
did your crampons bite?
did the pack give way? Alone
in the shade of static,
fixed hills, I wonder, and wait.
OPTIONAL POETRY 