I’ve just realized — it’s the sound
you hear when placing a shell
to your ear. Or any similar object,
really the rushing tides of blood
inside us. There’s the draw;
we’re mostly water and it
goes where it will.
May 30
Some mornings exist in a void,
so clear and calm I can hear
the morning traffic rushing
over the bridge, something
like fast water or a sea breeze.
What I would not give to see
the ocean today. We all have
our tides and mine has gone
out for far too long. Even the
smell of salt would act as balm
for this gutting spring tide;
uncovering the most
confidential of tide pools,
the most secret anemones.
I would tug the ocean back
over and watch them bloom.
Apparently, I’m at odds
with the moon, resenting
its waxing in my time
of want.
May 29.2
Lamb, who made you?
Heartlessness begets
heartlessness– I’m sorry
for sticking you with the bill.
Even tygers have a conscience,
usually pickled in beer,
and egged on by the knowing
smirks of waiters.
May 29.1
I guess that’s why they call it
the blues, piped into the grocery
store, a slow-up at the checkstand,
I’ll miss my bus for sure. Oh Elton,
I don’t really care, wandering the aisles
and looking at cereal. The passage
of people makes a place feel lonely,
grocery stores and airports, especially
at odd hours. The linoleum seems sad.
I wish it didn’t — but it’s things like this
that write the songs, not just failed
romances but weeks of standing
in produce sections looking at
tomatoes that all look the same.
May 29
The 3 AM bird may not be real;
I usually hear it after starting
from a dream, this time lightning
and thunder, but the brightest
I could imagine, the most
ear-cracking. I had to get up
and walk around the darkened
house, half-sure someone
had tried to break in. Nothing.
I had smelled smoke, saw
sparks cascading from
the roof before I woke.
The 3 AM bird called again,
what could it be saying
at such an hour? It’s true
the sky was changing
its character, the line
between night and morning
a fluid one. Got a glass
of water, went back to bed,
listening as it sang its peculiar
lonely song to the morning
arriving, calm and gray,
ash after the fires.
May 28.3
And as the sun set, rain
from a clear-ish sky,
everything softening,
on the lake a convoy
of geese, lines of goslings;
we sat under umbrellas
meant for the sun, waited
for the rain to ebb;
construction workers
with headlamps on
steered an aluminum boat
through the skeleton of pylons;
the new bridge half done;
I’ll move long before it’s
finished. I know nothing is
forever. Nothing is forever.
Nothing is forever, but
sometimes I wish it was.
May 28.2
Don’t comfort me with apples,
comfort me with plums;
a little softer, a little more bitter
this early in the season, a little
more easily bruised by
careless thumbs.
May 28.1
Way to get back on the horse, she said.
With real horses I’ve only been thrown once,
then learned how to sit the spooks, stutter
-steps and caprices of half-ton beasts.
To be fair, I would not canter with a blind
spot under my nose, would not risk
my delicate bones to rise over a faux
brick wall. The worst was Louie,
an off-the-track thoroughbred, still
youngish, responding to any threat
or stress by taking off like a bolt,
counter-clockwise, back at the races,
leaning on my hands to go faster
and faster, back in the only place
he really knew. I get instinct, nostrils
flared, the need to think things
out through action. And there’s
something about a horse, as if
sometimes they don’t know
their own selves, awkward
in their elegance, in recondite
eyes a sort of lingering sadness.
May 28
The morning off, should walk
to the market and buy plums
for a tart. But it’s started
to drizzle, and are they even
in season? This place is
nothing compared to where
I’ve just been; I’m in no mood
to tease out the beauty
of this pink rhododendron.
It’s gaudy, domesticated,
and the roses have blight.
This morning has no draw,
feeling uneasy as breakfast
after harsh words were spoken.
Even the sun is a little off —
sickly, wan– unsure if
it will clear up or pour. And,
I haven’t heard a single bird
call out over the yards
of lawns and landscaping
bark. How does a place
so open and flat feel
nothing but confining?
May 27.1
Today I’ve heard Led Zeppelin
on the radio, incessantly,
including D’ya Mak’er twice.
What does it mean?
And today in the garden,
a random Russian woman
told me, there’s no such
thing as perfect in this life,
joining a long series of
Russian female archetypes
that arc through my life
story and give unsolicited
advice. Maybe the point
patiently waiting for a sign
is that after a while one
gets bored and elects
to just act. It’s not like
love is a finite quantity;
where’s the sense in
hedging bets given
a pride’s capacity
for self-regeneraion?
Just bet against the house,
double down on the kiss.
OPTIONAL POETRY 