A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush because its weight is tangible— as far as omens go an albatross is worse when it is metaphorical . Sometimes words are as good for thirst as bucket of saltwater— give me something small to hold on to, some sea -smoothed stone, a startling barnacle
Rain like lace. I hate this weather for its consistency. My heart is temperamental as a leaf, it turns and turns and drops at anything. Scientists think that red pigments lower the freezing point of leaves, keep them viable for longer with the heat of anger. Or, having fallen, that anthocyanins leach out to poison the roots of any competition— such ugliness begat by beauty. And at the base of every leaf, an abscission layer, for […]
I’m more inured to the risks of flight than the perils of digging in, Exhibit A: the construction pit being filled with light rain, they’ll have to pump it clear again. I dreamed we were buying tickets to anywhere, found this great place on the coast– It’s really winter here, now, the sky the color of pavement, even the birds are bailing out– What a gift, what a gift to have wings, but also to lack the capacity for digging holes
The standoffish cat is asleep now, doubly distant. Behind the hanging blinds is an unlit lot. The only things that move are branches, and the second hand of the wall clock that isn’t turned back yet. No balmy night, no quiet stars, just the hum of the refrigerator and a glass of water— the wind isn’t enough to stir me, no, so here I am still, alone and in love
Standing still and green, the grass is more water than land. The sky is gray, dawn long past, but again, it’s hard to quantify. I think I may have a stone at my core, just one of those that studs the lawn, that fallen leaves adhere to, dense and cool, and hence the sense of weight, and how I wake on these days, Oregon mornings, to wistful rain, and a sense of longing–
That blank sky. Day, but not an inch more. A strata of birds wind through the building cranes’ poles, seagulls high, crows, lower. Now coffee and packing. The highway is a cure in that it demands forward movement– bird or car, a stall is failed flight. Such guilty solace, to take to the Interstate, alone, to burn miles like effigies, dividing a landscape into present, and past–
Funny how an absence can feel so weighty. Of course I still breathe, but the air is rarer, and I turn a little blue from time to time. Is there a word for the echo of an embrace? I swear, I can still feel it in my arms on nights like these, starless and wakeful, resting like a chill for as long as I can keep it.
Sirens all night, unrepealable. Why does it seem to get late all at once? This is still the hour of doors and muffled stairs, which cedes to the hour of the lonely cars. Somewhere in here the static gets sharp, the night grows teeth, and alone takes on a tomb-like flavor– some dull wine that’s either cheap or gone sour– uncertainty exerting its effect on a volatile moment, but really, there can only be so many false alarms– […]
[Albedo]* No stars, but the city lights over-compensate at night– this is still the world of the living. All these towers are lit up in all sorts of hues, incandescent warmth, white and cool blues, as more diffuse clouds come in over the bay, and on their belly, a feeble pink reflection– the sky between is void, matte and colorless, an unanswered question, a voice left hanging– just think of a photon traveling across the […]
Love like sleep on a late autumn day– come in from the cold and settled in place. Relief compared to being out by the lake in all this rain, caught in the rage of branches in a squall– a leitmotif, the urge toward the perilous, but this the theme: I return to returning (da capo al fine) even setting out I draw closer to you.
OPTIONAL POETRY 