a short sunbreak
barely an hour
otherwise it is still
save for water
falling from branch
to boulder
say an echo
of the prior rain
the stone worn smooth
from years of the same
year’s end
time is somehow
more perceptible
say the way a sunbeam
is caught in low-lying mist
the way memories
return to fill empty space
the garlic has sent up
new green shoots
like swords, or say tongues–
Nearing year’s end
the upstairs window
frames the endless forest
firs and cedars
oscillating in the wind
small storm, but the paper
says get ready, something
big is rolling in from the coast
or maybe we are hurtling towards it
this planet spins after all
Christmas Eve among the pelagic
is not un-festive, the ruby rockfish
striped with silver tinsel scales,
the oystercatcher’s scarlet beak,
in the tropical house the leopard ray
slides down the sides of its acrylic tank
they aren’t sure why, it must feel nice,
belly white as snow, one enormous
single flake, falling and rising
comfort and joy, comfort and joy
Given the rarity of sun
we can forgive its low
insistent exuberance
flooding our eyes
from all directions
the woodpeckers chatter
each call a rapid succession
of questions and answers
at the edge of this forest
almost everything is soft
a maze of damp boughs
and spongey loam
sunbeams that pool
honey on the moss
the fur of the coyote
laid out by the ditch
its legs outreached
and stiff as branches
There is a stretch of road
that often for a moment
seems incongruent
utterly unfamiliar
my car passing through
some existential plane—
where am I?
have I gone the wrong way?
the lanes go on eternally
in the dark arcade
the trees the same soft
suggestions by the roadside
only the exit signs
hard proof of place
glowing in the headlights
delimiting space
a short eulogy for
the shortest day of the year—
it rained
construction went on
indomitably
across from the hospital
inchoate orderliness
enviable
what a job
to fix something fixable
Sending cards to cdmx
it may be spring when
they finally arrive
if they make it at all
this is not an act of faith—
when was it we were last there?
the sun rising over the tarmac
ripe as papaya
that long airport hall
full of money changers
mostly empty at that hour
how did we get to Erica’s?
how did we get anywhere?
the physics of memory
is the same as in dreams
we met Alfredo in some
sleek Reforma lobby
my Spanish was poor
then somehow Coyoacán
eating chiles en nogada
it was November
everything was an arrival
time behaving differently
perhaps the altitude
floating through a city
at once here and years ago
the night cracks open
at four in the morning
a tree fell out back
gusts push and press
against the house
the windows protest
a tree is still falling, or
maybe just a large branch
the absolute black
distorts perception—
a shot and its retort
as the thing comes down
sharp, profane, maybe more
than one thing
maybe the night itself
scaffolding collapsing
the rush of wind obscures
any easy answer
the horses abandon
their paddock
for higher ground
it’s really coming down now
constant drubbing
insistent as a heartbeat
the ground is at its limit
it might be fatalism
to say if it does, it does
if it will, it will,
but each raindrop
hammers home its point
with relative accuracy
the valley road will flood soon
the sky reflected back
in pools of muddy glass
at dawn, pearls of rain
strung through the bare maple
barely a dawn
the sky going from wet slate
to something slightly lighter
a storm today
the trees grow discrete
but otherwise
it passes intangibly
a promising new acquaintance
I will never
see again
OPTIONAL POETRY 