This here is fine, but a really interesting playwould be about the boaton the backdrop slowly coming to realizethat is not actually at sea, is not an actor but only watching them play their parts on a stage that a backdrop borders but doesn’t engage, and how it still stays, knowing this, having no choice, not mobile or motile,not even with those fullpainted sails that it oncewas so proud of.
Up with the sun but it isn’t upisn’t even blush or flush with the butte the light comes from lowbut still catches on the grapestheir matte purple tinged with dew and pulling on the vines we’ve changed our places over time and nowI’m setting as it rises.
The mornings are cooler now,the coyote’s returned or probably a new one, it seemed a little smaller. And that wraps up summer–a boat has cut its engine and sits on the still lake.Knowing the ending,now we wait. The finches rehearse their southern migration, chatter excitedly about their upcoming trip. We who are staying start to grow a thicker coat, to keep us warm, hide our leanness in the coming gaunt months. The morning tries to burn off these sorts of thoughts,the boat moves […]
Last night the wind whippedflagwires in the valley against their poles, with closed eyesit could have been sailboats worried in their moorings at a freshening breeze. A goldfinch landed on the rail, electric against the lowering sky,then startled away, and allthis time I’ve thought harbingers were meant to be frightening, not frightened.
Sky, hill, pewter, rustbrighter this side of the mountains but still subdued, the radio finally finds and settles on a station, I try to pick out words, catch glimpses of mylar ribbon strewn through trees like tinsel froma cherry harvest long over a song comes on slow so I understand it tú estás siempre en mi mente,a nostalgic proclamation of horns and strings and chimes–the credits should roll now as I shoot down this road splitting foothills washed in dust haze and gold– […]
It is almost the end of summer’s high cathedral days this ground is airystoring yearsin its loam a downed branch genuflectsas I step on its edge robed in velvety moss that dampensthe sound, still small birds dartseeking safetyin the open, shelter without closing, a very present refuge—oh how these words have stuck,and no bird singsits songs by rote but no song is eitherentirely our ownand there’s still a comfort hidden somewherein these sounds among the […]
The first rays of sun are honey on the leavesthe back-lit maples a singing sort of green but already slipping into something more sensible the beginning’s ending the first of many In envy I watch thempalm the breeze not obliged to leavenot turning away from the morning’s kindness distilling this suffusion into sweetsweet sap but I have no alembic of trunk and leafjust a few harried wordsand somewhere to be.
At the body shop they said they could hammer out the dents, could stretchand scrape, apply clear coat,and no one would knowthere was ever a wreck. On one hand it seemsthat growing hardermakes breaks easier to fix, each new hitan opportunity to practice gutting and replacement. But getting softer, blows are absorbed with no resistance,all giving wholly–still it seems easierto learn one’s ownmechanics than to give an inch,let alone all, even if it meanssome hidden damage, and supplemental costs.
We walk in our own world. Fog opens before us, fog closes behind usand sometimes we see shadowy figures,sometimes the animist glow of a truck’s headlightsas it spins an empty circle on hard-packed sand. We all leave our mark here, relative to weight, this ground is laced with pulverized shells and rock crab slaughter, but the tide is going out now, now innocuous. A solo seagull tucks into itself to sleep, mistaking poor visibility […]
Early morning tableau— wan sunlight and ecstasy of dog. A thought arises— there might have been a warmer reception back into the world of the living if anyone had just brought Cerberus his bowl.
OPTIONAL POETRY 