Another day, another
astrophysicist.
This one says she listens
to the stars–
everything out there
emitting radio waves,
she knows them by
their frequencies,
tuning the dial,
different things come in–
births, deaths,
black holes, quasars–
and never saying
the same thing twice,
not quite,
she tells me
this often is
overlooked,
perhaps due in part
to our unconscious
desire to make
the things we love
immutable
How easily you stepped
into my dreams,
how easy a presence,
although dreams are at best
the first pass
of an impressionist–
colors made sentient,
but poor predictors–
Nonetheless
waking today I feel
the urge to fling
open the windows
and fling open doors
and throw a convocation
for all those cautious birds,
saying this is mine,
my treasure, my new
call to call!
In other words,
to coat this fragile thing
in brashness,
safeguarding
easily passing
as an act of creation–
but make no mistake,
I am holding fast
among all this gold
and cerulean
It rained last night, sad
to have missed it–
the porch boards
blotched a deeper hue,
the only hint
it happened,
everything else dry,
the sky that white
-blue color of a bit lip,
tight-curled knuckles,
afraid to let another
drop spill out.
These minutes settle
like pollen, or dust–
imperceptible accrual.
A bird sings the same
song, over and over
and over, you’d think
fluency with immersion,
but no, some things
are inscrutable.
Morning cedes
with the ease
of a breeze, enviably.
Recondite self,
what is this ache?
Hope is only
a stop-gap,
always traded
on arrival, here,
now loosen
your fingers,
now show
some grace–
Everything is bolting
in the heat, sending up
last gasps, small
anxious leaves,
scattered and flowering,
even the greens
in the shadiest bed
giving in to reflex–
panic, unbecoming,
I sit in late morning’s
near silence– a button
strikes in the washing
machine, the dog
is gnashing her fur
with her teeth, a jet
passes low–
tail,
contrail,
it’s motion that gives
us all away–
Unmoved, I eat
a mealy peach.
(After Basho)
Even on this
perfect afternoon,
I long for summer—
a complicated thirst.
An empty glass
is a maw, a full glass,
a vessel, and this view
of half-moon sails
clipping across
cobalt water
is so generously
poured out,
it’s no wonder
I feel hollow.
The night is always
more than the day
the unseen
weighing more
heavily
yet subtly
the quick creasing
of a bat’s wing
a dull red speck
that might be Saturn
the implication
of the doubly-stilled lake
I wish I had stayed
to swim in these expanses
but now it’s late Monday,
the maple leaves
are wilting on the trees,
stale sun, full heat,
and I’m here
if you want me–
Oh the things I won’t try
to soften up this
gorgon heart of mine–
wine, up late
with the boxes that came
after the wake
what remains
is mostly Fujichrome,
frozen smiles, some trinkets
and baubles, a hat
he always wore when fishing,
with its cartoon shrimp dancing–
I had to stop the exercise.
Some materials are just not
malleable, yes this could
be a carapace to shed,
a loss of protection
in order to grow,
or the cracks might go
straight through
the core, just how
would I know?
They called again
just after midnight
up in the hills
behind the house
several coyotes
come down close
masked by the night
protesting the absence
of the moon and the loss
of the four, five,
six deer that trickled
past here earlier,
a river of hooves,
still in the road
like figurines
before scaling up
an abandoned lot,
this landscape
swallows those
who wish it
willingly,
the vineyard
sobbing like doves,
the grasslands
hissing like
cicadas.
The plan to rise early
turned into a slump
returning to the covers
as the last coyotes
slouched off
and not waking again
till fat bars of heat
fell across the room–
full sun through the curtainless
windows I’d left open
for a breeze and to hear
the coyotes ululate,
and stentorian owls–
now I’m entering
a day that’s already
been made
proceeding impersonally
no surprises in the sky,
a uniform blue,
no the song comes
from below–
a warbler in the wash,
lusterless brown,
divorced from its
high notes–
also finding safety
and solace
in obscurity, also
speaking its mind
at the corner
of this day,
and with such
out-sized
authority–
what could it
be saying?
OPTIONAL POETRY 