Thinking of a river, thinking
of a lake, of water, cool and far
from here, and of passage,
if not arrival, of what comes
after endings, and also
beginnings, what’s beyond,
what’s more–
Thinking of the forest floor,
gestalt of cast off needles
and moss, how gracefully
it accepts a weight, gives way
but doesn’t break, and with
each year how it grows– in place.
Sometimes like a cataract
the artist’s eye
trained to see
negative
space and so
used to starting
with a blank
but what else
works that way
really
just try to pay
a bill with possibility
hyperopia more a defect
than a marketable skill
In the distance the sky
a turgid pewter gray
to a lowering blue but
here it was just a bit
of wind
and waiting–
.
Catatonic in the elevator
the woman said how is your day
going my husband just fell twelve
feet but he’s going to be ok
I think he’s in surgery now
and asked for positive vibes
.
It never did thunder
so I did instead
but a peal or an appeal
it’s hard to say
.
It always is
.
Especially here
Waking in a city of birds
a scaffolding of songs
scrapings in the gutter
guttural divine calls
beyond the open window
half-closed curtains half
-closed eyes the only way
to know the ephemeral
nothing quite present
slow departure slow
arrival this one beginning
among many others and
a motion not a place
Real sunsets now
fanfares for the days
now not slipping away
unnoticed but lingering
in fuchsia and gold
denouements but still,
endings
.
this isn’t a blue
tint that would be too
obvious a thing this is
colorless odorless
an uncanny world
preserved plasticine–
.
I cannot seem
to touch it
To fill a void
one must first
acknowledge
it exists–
and failing
that expansion
must go outward
unbindable
highway 2
at dawn
a woman possessed
but even at
these new falls
bigger than the last falls
even with their
most conclusive roar
and electric moss
rocks and clean air
I still think here
here’s where
that hiker fell in
and went over
yes nature giving
but yes nature taking
away even at the lake
the clouds never burned
off chilly
and hesitating
and so we parted ways
earlier than expected
I know it’s a glacial lake
hence the hue–
unearthly erethral
more green than
blue I had seen
photos imagined it
for days and when
I went it looked
the same but
of course different
it’s a trick
being too well-versed
in imagination
I sometimes think
I know every thing
but then the tell
like some alpine
salamander
swimming out past
the wreck of
some half
-submerged log
casting tiny
ripples
minuscule shadows
but what a delight–
and the heard
not seen avalanches
cascading off
a semi-distant peak
all at once both sharp
and dull and I know
there’s still room
in this heart of mine
but oh what a ways
I go these days
to find
it–
[A dialogue of self and houseplants]
I:
I gave all the orchids away
too intolerant of their constant
demands
Phalaenopsis, Cymbidium:
We were victims of your
inconsistency–
a season of doting
and then, the droughts
I:
I bought small cacti
to replace them
trading bristles and spines
for fragile delicacy
Escobaria vivipara:
And yet you’ve only
just noticed
that our flowers
are fake–
dried crimson
hot-glued in place
for shame
I:
And the lovely jade
in the antique pot
has rotted,
twice
Crassula ovata:
And yet I never died
each gummy stem
each fat-thumbed leaf
you saved and rooted
to form new plants
I:
A boundary then
between neglect
and outright death
needing a sign of distress
to break through
the too-full days
Schlumbergera:
A disappointment
at Christmas,
my namesake,
but in April now
a shocking surprise–
I defy convention
with my cascades of blooms
so it’s not only dire
things that catch
your eye–
such joy for
the unanticipated
the unanticipated
and good–
I:
I could do better
if things were better
but this is a good
reminder, if nothing else
once a year things
can go right, so very right
they command attention–
Schlumbergera:
We gave a gift–
Phalaenopsis, Cymbidium:
And you gave us as a gift
Crassula ovata:
And living is forgiving
Escobaria vivipara:
This is the lesson
Crassula ovata:
It bears repeating
It’s beautiful so
beautiful but it isn’t
a friend. Turquoise
in the shallows
hints at depth
or deception.
There’s always a way
through even if
this isn’t
it. These rills
these standing eddies
like words
spoken without a tongue
unknowable yet
understandable
once you know half
of it is wind
and the landscapes
underwater
is most of the other
what remains
after that is equal
parts beauty
and fear.
I take it back
what I said about
relief
these nights
still have teeth
and the last stretch
of lilac sky between
ink-limbed trees
seems farther
than reasonable
peaceful yes
it’s leaving
after all
OPTIONAL POETRY 