Tonight, a half-assed storm.
The drunk man in the lobby
slurs I don’t need this.
Enough, rain, enough—
my glass is turned over.
I’ve run out of words
to describe
the night.
November 12
The top of the gingko
has lost its leaves,
with a windstorm
in the forecast.
In a sunbreak today
I walked around the lake
seeking solace
in the dockyards,
but found only
cruel sleek boats,
so capable of leaving
that they were no comfort.
These nights are gluttons,
and there’s little left to take—
I could count each yellow
leaf, fine as a petal, yet
strong enough to have
held the sun, once.
Anything could tame
it, now, feeble
at the horizon, its lack
of warmth, alarming,
but no choosy beggar, I
try to savor even the dregs.
November 11
A bird in the hand
is worth two in the bush
because its weight
is tangible—
as far as omens go
an albatross is worse
when it is metaphorical
.
Sometimes words
are as good for thirst
as bucket of saltwater—
give me something small
to hold on to, some sea
-smoothed stone,
a startling barnacle
November 10
Rain like lace. I hate this weather
for its consistency.
My heart is temperamental
as a leaf, it turns
and turns and drops
at anything. Scientists think
that red pigments lower
the freezing point of leaves,
keep them viable for longer
with the heat of anger. Or,
having fallen, that anthocyanins
leach out to poison
the roots of any competition—
such ugliness begat
by beauty.
And at the base
of every leaf, an abscission
layer, for cold-induced
dehiscence, the tree closing off
from what it once needed.
Deciduous. Deciduous, meaning
jealous of permanence,
but it’s getting so cold out—
The seal begins to form.
November 9
I’m more inured to the risks of flight
than the perils of digging in,
Exhibit A: the construction pit
being filled with light rain,
they’ll have to pump it
clear again. I dreamed we
were buying tickets
to anywhere,
found this great place on the coast–
It’s really winter here, now,
the sky the color of pavement,
even the birds are bailing out–
What a gift, what a gift to have
wings, but also to lack
the capacity for
digging holes
November 8
The standoffish cat
is asleep now, doubly
distant. Behind
the hanging blinds
is an unlit lot.
The only things
that move are branches,
and the second hand
of the wall clock
that isn’t turned back
yet. No balmy night,
no quiet stars, just the hum
of the refrigerator
and a glass of water—
the wind isn’t enough
to stir me, no,
so here I am still, alone
and in love
November 7
Standing still and green,
the grass is more water
than land. The sky
is gray, dawn long past,
but again, it’s hard
to quantify. I think
I may have a stone
at my core, just one
of those that studs
the lawn, that fallen
leaves adhere to, dense
and cool, and hence
the sense of weight,
and how I wake
on these days,
Oregon mornings,
to wistful rain,
and a sense of longing–
November 6
That blank sky. Day,
but not an inch more.
A strata of birds
wind through
the building cranes’ poles,
seagulls high, crows,
lower. Now coffee
and packing. The highway
is a cure in that it demands
forward movement–
bird or car, a stall
is failed flight. Such guilty
solace, to take
to the Interstate,
alone, to burn miles
like effigies,
dividing a landscape
into present, and past–
November 5
Funny how an absence
can feel so weighty. Of course
I still breathe,
but the air is rarer,
and I turn a little blue
from time to time.
Is there a word
for the echo
of an embrace?
I swear, I can still
feel it in my arms
on nights like these,
starless
and wakeful,
resting like a chill
for as long as I can keep it.
November 4
Sirens all night, unrepealable.
Why does it seem to get late all at once?
This is still the hour of doors
and muffled stairs, which cedes
to the hour of the lonely cars.
Somewhere in here
the static gets sharp,
the night grows teeth,
and alone takes on a tomb-like flavor–
some dull wine that’s either cheap
or gone sour– uncertainty
exerting its effect
on a volatile moment,
but really,
there can only be
so many false alarms–
OPTIONAL POETRY 