December 24

December 24, 2016
by C
comments 4
poetry

An eve, but it isn’t
an arrival if it doesn’t

stay. Sun on the bridge,
the lake like a mirror,

here suffused with gray.
The night still falls

early but the day gets
longer. Too cold still

to dig in the garden,
the onions can wait,

wrapped in their paper,
safely frozen,

dreamless, mute.
Il nous en faut faire autant

turelurelu, patapatapan—
French carols on

the stereo, blind dog
sleeping in the corner.

Down the embankment
small birds like afterthoughts,

as I wait for a word, anything,
an evening, an eve, the last sun break,

still waiting, turelurelu,
patapatapan, love is

a living thing,
consider the implication.

 

 

 

 

 

December 17

December 17, 2016
by C
comments 7
poetry

I dreamed a door
swept shut

and felled a row
of empty bottles

that didn’t break
but scattered about

with hollow echoes
and you were there

saying careless, careless,
careless, careless

awake again
light coils

on the floor
cool-hued pools

of star and streetlamp,
making a cold thing

colder
sleep an uneasy truce

December 16

December 16, 2016
by C
comments 52
poetry

 

What do you say
to a man who is dying?

A fact, just as it is
twenty-eight degrees

out, the sun set
three hours

and thirty-five
minutes ago, this is

a man who is dying,
but is still alive.

Careful, things fall
easily here,

this the greatest
distance, none

could be
further.

What hues
in that sunset!

A slow burn
over the bay,

the city changes
its face, harder

edges of night,
but ribbons of traffic,

headlights, taillights,
half coming, half

going, so graceful at
a distance.

I said it is twenty
-eight degrees out,

and of course it doesn’t
matter, there are no

tenable bridges
or tethers, no words,

no roads, this man
is dying, and

the forecast
says more snow.

 

December 15

December 15, 2016
by C
Leave a comment
poetry

How the intolerable
becomes tolerable, against 

all attestations otherwise
the bite, forgotten

that old dispensation
what a strange capacity

a heart deadens
itself, dryly, inexorable

as a nature show
prey, predator, or

merely winter
coming on, nothing

is surprising
now, not even

this

 

 

December 13

December 13, 2016
by C
comments 6
poetry

ICU days
line draws

and scrawled
fishbones

sweet jesus
overheard

we stop
at each door

each door
a threshold

sunlight today
but frosted glass

a curtain drawn
for privacy

opacity
for if it comes

to pass
this is a shore

if anything
a great big blank

the lung’s
secret space

and the blood
singing wrong

December 12

December 12, 2016
by C
comments 7
poetry

Again, short days. What
else is there to say?

Besides all the things
a night can be: Clarity

of skyline, articulate
distance. I love the red

of WONDER BREAD, of CITY
LIGHT, old neon signs,

all heart. It’s no good
here in the thick of it,

LED bright and still
the ankle twists

to the gutter. A huddle
passes, soft people, shapes

only, the very power
of suggestion. And then

the street empties out,
except for all this incandescence–

December 10

December 10, 2016
by C
comments 7
Uncategorized

And here we are, snow come
and melted, the same cool

gray as ever. This damp
feels like the smell of home

after a time away, familiar
become new, for just a moment,

novel, known. And here
we are, the year dwindling,

eternal northern nights.
Breath like a cloud. It isn’t

sadness yet, but something
more rare. We had a true

blizzard once, trees felled
by ice. Numbering the days:

what was, what will. Turning
in early. Silent night.

November 25

November 25, 2016
by C
comments 7
poetry

Cold coming over
the pass, cold rain,

the steep drop,
the silent lake,

couldn’t see
a thing.

And the lights
of those first

few towns, so warm
at a distance–

another arrival,
and what then?

A stone,
no other word.

Unmoved
and unmovable,

aloof. Knit a nest
for it, feather

the den, dust off
the snow–

or don’t.

November 15

November 15, 2016
by C
comments 2
Uncategorized

Motion doesn’t always
lead to rest.

An impression of earning,
but the statement doesn’t lie.

Derivation of softness,
clemency. First declension:

Feminine nouns only,
and pirate, farmer, poet,

and charioteer–
from the Greek: I do, I lead, I drive. 

It must be the tether,
the bridle, the ties

that bind. The statelessness.
Whose earth is this?

It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s.
James Brown. Epecticus:

It is neither wrong
nor right to carve

the night sky into hours
and arcs. Prediction,

not prediliction;
declination, right ascension.

Distant rain across
an unseen lake. Falling

as arriving, and other
false statements. To cultivate

is to prepare, to sow, to try
to acquire. No thing

promised. But assumption
inherent in any equation. What

are the values? What
are the terms? And who

gives way
to keep the balance?

To fulfill expectation
requires no exact

measurement: Expand
until more empty

space than self.
State change. Statehood,

stoicism. The bit,
it goes between your teeth.