This weird spring light that fills the house with green bright through the curtains the lashings of rain the day surges then cedes a thrush sings its cool low call the mist comes down into the pines behind the woodshed the forest behind us growing shadowed and deep somewhere out there the newly woken bear is making its way along the edge of a dream
A sea change sitting in the dark listening to it rain just how long have I been holding my breath?
The promised rain has been detained the day is just still with little anticipation for such a non-event, and one that arrives so innocuously— the thinking that nothing much will change in a mild spring rain by a veil of drops but of course it will— everything is touched, the sidewalk’s sheen, the gingko’s green, the clipped walking pace of the few passerbys outside the window, distant and distant, twice removed— the rain fills the […]
Sun today like honey like salve and that breeze coming off the lake– crisp bridges linear and visible in fullest color not simply more light this clarity– winter has its own perspective– a twist of mirrors and new glass shifts into focus a few repurposed shards illusions of infinity and then there is this sky
Punctuation. Pedantry. It’s not a question but a wall, impermeable by design. The forecast has been wrong all week; I anticipate wrongness now like expecting rain, the hail that fell for hours, you can tell it will by the color of the sky, or at least I thought you can, that doubtful gray superimposed on blue. Hard rain that doesn’t roll off, the wind compels it, impels it. And falling silent, do I repel, or […]
Rain starting to come in the open window the day says get to the point and July as a whole– I don’t know, it is somehow insubmersible . a stream of ragged people go by with unclear words but that tone is unmistakable . water beads up on the glass, imperfect, but linear– . and so, this month goes on
The world today, flooding intermittently. Dry now, the sky is being willfully obtuse about just what it is— the white of an eye, a means of containment. Nothing about it says finite. The city seen from a moderate distance— old glass, new glass, die-cut gulls. It’s a low ceiling that we operate under. In copper-hued plate glass, the transit of clouds.
Inversion: air stagnant, the sun pale as a fish eye, moon-like, an unspeakable thought. Everything settles into the valleys between these foothills: fog, silence, hawks. Clouds of boiled wool, snow-dusted land, even my thoughts are dampened– One bird, and then another. Tails dipped in rust, dried blood, the blank-mirror lake not unlike a page, empty acres to fill, a task or a chance, like pouring a glass, or finding sleep, the readiness is all–
Maybe it’s a lack of solid ground, afloat in a sea of glass and iron, but my tongue is growing sharper. Scaffolding and sterile girder, these do not unfurl, have no grace of life, just conceal so many empty rooms, like lidded eyes. The sky has a presentiment of coming weather, grows dull even as a crack of blue appears, but it’s just another space for lease, too toothless and meek to last for even […]
A quiet morning, so few people are awake, or so few advertise it, it must have just rained but now it’s a lull, just some wind and fragmented gulls blowing over an empty lot . The sky has a tenor to it, all this year it’s been later than it seems and now there’s no denying it– we’ve been here before at home under the oppressive cloud layer . Somehow it’s a comfort to wake […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 