OPTIONAL POETRY

This pigeon could be
a dove but for its
dull asphalt plumage
and oil-slicked neck
either a proud bruise
or thumbprint or defect–

it could never be
Aphrodite’s pet

but its dolent call
still seems somehow
sacred

having traded
sky and olive for
the Underworld
of a parking garage–

level two to be
precise where the pipe
leaks and no one parks
in the Acheron–

it doesn’t judge
just paces the empty
ill-lit spots and says
how they are hollow

the answer
it gets back
is just an echo
it must not know
at least I hope
it doesn’t

if anything
it’s just a soul
without a coin
to buy passage on

and it’s forgotten
how to fly

as down here
where would it
fly to?

The night, still warm
enough to traverse

coatless, the moonlight
almost enough

to see by,
but the old dog

has gotten lost
in it,

circling
an apple tree

in the the corner
of the yard,

a thought’s thought,
that’s deja vu,

but every revolution
she turns

is something new,
her pale fur

faintly lit,
she starts to come

when I call
but gets called back

by some stronger
instinct,

it the scratch,
she the needle,

the song prolonged,
and maddening.

A blizzard
in New York,
but here
it’s sixty-four
in January,
like never before.

The warm air
smells, tens
of neighbors
wash their cars,
and something
is blooming
against better
judgement.

Failed winter,
alright,
this is a door
straight to July,
a reminder
of how a heart
can feel,
still,
after dormancy
that at first
I thought was
self-imposed

It’s not a decision to see
my breath turn to cloud.
It’s not my decision
to breathe,

although I know some, now,
who have made that call—

Coldest are the nights with stars,
halos round the moon, clinical
beauty, precise and piercing—

You say it’s a matter of choice.
I say, take whatever warmth
you can get, for as long
as you can get it–

always darkest before the dawn
hinges heavily on assumption

[Posthumous]

Lilac streaks this sunrise
against the dusky mountain

the floor moves on
with plans for discharge

or work for the M.E.
it does get lighter

earlier now
I panic in traffic

thinking I’m late
staring at the mountain

and what does late
even mean

if not that we take
so much for granted