[The day] The gray rooms are not large enough to hold all that they contain, the precedents of admits, the recycled air and soft TV voices from other sides of curtains. And on the psych floor, small slots of afterlifes, another day, then another day, then another day, or sometimes not.
It’s the day before the day. The rain’s returned, barely seen, gathering at the eaves until water drops in chandelier pieces. Any noise is too noisy. The morning demands silence, imposes it, clearing from pavement and shingles any last vestige of snow.
i. Every night has in it a bit of every other night. That’s the secret. ii. These are not blue walls but they could be, might as well be, given how little else has changed– these curtains can go hang themselves. iii. And it’s trees instead of the cathedral beyond thick panes– and double, here, to better staunch a draft iv. Light at night is not itself either, not entirely, like a thought, it carries […]
Someday we’ll look back, I hope, and you won’t believe how I used to sit and let doubt and red wine carve me out from the inside in measured small sips, hardly maudlin, just knowing how how many laps it takes to cross the night. Then I’ll say hope is an albatross, and hope that you’ll see not just Dickinson and duality– harbinger of good omens, and doom– but also the sea stretching on for […]
On one of the last undecided days, it was a comfort to wake from strange dreams, derived from the keeping of odd hours– not mine to have. The sky is dead dull, won’t even play at being day, this empty house exhales stale heat and this beige curtain oscillates a bit, this houseplant unfurls a new burnished leaf– Still life, still life.
Slate gray lake a moving slate each crescented line a mark and an erasure. He said here lies he whose name was writ in water and so is everything– nothing completely old, or new, the same wave, different molecules. From this house on a hill the South end of the lake appears to glow from within now and then, a thinning of overcast skies, more sophistry, set against snow-dusted hills and block print vineyards, stark […]
The road paved in ice and that damn owl playing hopscotch on the roof all night. The room too warm, the smell of snow came in a cracked window at three, such an unbecoming hour, and it seems there will never be enough– I mean, there isn’t a leap or reach that isn’t preface to a landing.
Exactly when does it cease to be night and qualify as dawn? What percentage of light? There are very few real endings and even those we only recognize well well after the fact, hidden as they are in obscure actions, the turn onto a road, or emptying a glass.
The road paved in ice and that damn owl playing hopscotch on the roof all night. The room too warm, the smell of snow came in a cracked window at three, such an unbecoming hour, and it seems there will never be enough– I mean, there isn’t a leap or reach that isn’t preface to a landing.
Snow, flat cold, a perfect veiling of place, except in the midmorning sun by the rabbit run it’s melting a bit, still there may be more to come and for once I long for it, for enforced simplicity and stillness, how softly and subtly it comes down to transform the landscape even as I watch.
OPTIONAL POETRY 