Cool rain waning moon
a mud-drab marsh bird
troubles the water
the reeds don’t stir
a mineral air
rises from the silt
soil the littoral
so literal I plant
my feet in earth
that is also part
water and returning
know a return
is also always
a departure
[I’m back! Was defending a thesis in a completely non-poetry-related field, am now enjoying life as a Master of Science]
I don’t know why
I opened windows
to let in such heat
or why I’m almost
tempted to sleep
outside if not
that there’s no
such thing as safe
or shelter
might as well
accept it
the offer
of fresh air
and the way
the day
falls off
into night
and wakes
with a chill
blue moon
you know
just what
I am
here for
Silence
is a thirst
answered
by sand
a couple hours
is a drought
a day
would be
the end
Every song is more songlike–
the cloud’s coloratura above
the lake, birds
carrying fish
gripped in feet like
good luck charms,
for some at least, life
it gives and takes,
a talon or a hand
is just one sort
of cage,
these gnats form another,
atomic cloud
-like above lily pads,
the water dark and slack
but for slow bubbles,
small spheres, trapped
air returning to air,
entropy, natural order,
beauty, everything
in concert, live, and direct–
Bird Song #2
Passerine birds have
perching feet, all songbirds
are passerines–
I was unsure at first,
feeling more a tinamou,
penguin, or skua
in worst moods,
but having lit
upon this branch
and begun to sing,
I would now need a beak
to hide this grin,
even in flight
I am calling, look, look
just what the years
have taught me after all,
three toes forward
one toe back–
Everywhere, now, I see
reaching–
the maple branches
under summer’s half
-done sun, the sun’s
rays themselves,
every airy exhalation,
the personified breeze,
all momentous acts,
or acts of momentum–
of course this isn’t what
Heisenberg meant
when he wrote
about uncertainty
but I could be
anywhere,
I wouldn’t care,
the principle stands–
I know where
I am going, now,
if not just how
to get there
What’s in a name–
ownership,
or creation?
When my friends
say yours
it makes me blush–
On my tongue
it’s like a river
or a question,
gently,
but heard
it is still a shock,
que existes!
The way they say it,
the yours
is implicit,
but from me
the yours
is more
an entreaty–
contestalo pronto,
por favor
A night wide open
like eyes. The way
a pupil seems
to fill an iris
but is actually
a hole. A gate
draws open
in advance
of an arrival.
The capacity
for delivery.
Nothing so sure.
Bird song #1
On land I have
the upright stance of an Auk,
even at a standstill
I am charging with abandon–
this new happiness
is about as blatant as Puffin
during breeding season,
ornately beaked,
comic, bumbling,
but hopefully, endearing.
A tenuous rain,
or maybe it’s terse—
nuance
is giving me
grief today.
I feel empty,
in both the
sense of hollow
and hungry—
and contain
enough hard reversals
that I am as much
a contronym
as refrain,
or apology—
persistently ceasing,
sorry I’m not
sorry–
OPTIONAL POETRY 