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
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– […]
Still life with street lamp and Gingko tree– a high-ceilinged room filled with empty hours and extremes, too cold, too hot, that ancient itch. In the lusterless dark I cannot cross over to sleep– a wild thought, an unlikely doubt, a drop in the sea, so gazing out onto a vacant street I wait for the rain to start.
A sun-drunk yesterday on late-season heat, even though it doesn’t clear Madison street in the evenings anymore, and gets cooler earlier, the sky gone staticky, the shadowy grains saying go home, no reason to stay here, just another thing gone, and paltry remainders.
You said you hear the coyotes more at night now, that deer traipse down the gully’s broken scree with inherent trepidation, their silence speaking for them as much as any yip or yowl. I miss the cold nights there when it’s so clear a halo rounds the moon, sharp air forcing awe from my ungrateful lungs. I miss the length of a northern winter night, with ample room for new and old fears, and how fresh […]
It’s too night, unloved black-cat black, as inked punctuation, looped pauses and finalities, or more like shaped as a glass, not hollow, but wanting. A night is a vessel, a word, an arrival, still, the shore never ceases to surprise me, and neither does the sea.
Another city night, velvet -textured, wine-hued, here on the roof deck, in a glass bowl of new construction– the sharp angles of stilled cranes flashing intermittent red– and sometimes a night is just peaceful, I don’t know what distinguishes it except this soft, late, light, the sky that settles in like an always -faithful tide, a sense of containment, yet kind, and spacious–
Whatever this is I’m attributing to the moon it’s probably due to wine or the hour, empty things exerting more pull, being more of a lure than those that are full— . It’s late, the small dog’s snore belying its size: or, what seemed large is small, or, what is small, seemed large.
In the distance the foghorn at the mouth of the Quillayute, unseen singing oh how the eyes deceive– like some mechanical dove or breath above a bottle, two hollow notes, one in constant falling. As the campfire dies smoke is held in close by the damp, the ocean lost in the whole of the night, but out there ships pass under a starless sky, and all that lies beyond them is tomorrow–
A reluctant return, a drag behind the motion, why? I still think of you now and again. A year, five, a loss of distinction, like water, difficult to define or bind. Is it because I’ve stopped trying, trusting blindly in gravity, sheer weight of will, pale and barren but exerting some pull? Another year condensed into a drop, the phase changes, properties too, but the laws are adhered to (but which? but whose?) If the night […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 