Tuesday, December 28, 2010

new year's poem

Whatever happens now -
I am falling forward, leaning out from the edge
of now, yet born back
by the push of the unknown, the force
of hurtling forth.
I am the train's blind engine, its sheet metal
skin, the glint at the edge where
it slices the air, its scream
into the dark.
I'm the crown of the newborn,
the blood-smeared brow behind
the tiny hand.
Good life and young, and yet
so much forgotten, my years forget me,
who I was, who I will become.

This is the way the world ends, not
with a bang...

that white light is the linen pillowcase,
clean as a hotel mirror; 
and I do recall, after all, a few things:
the smell of your shirt collar,
his small hand in mine,
a room full of candles.
that white light is the snow,
a blizzard, burying the line.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

the castle

a Valentine behind the black lace trees
in the West bleeds down, and
a streetlight blazes forth, the Advent star;
the snow is blue.

when I was my son's age
feverish, as he is, gazing
at the Tree; I'd imagine a castle, a mountain
a Christmas Montmartre (if you will), resplendent
with fairy lights and caves and conflicts.

the red glow of the haunted house, the blue
of the Winter Warlock's wood, the green;
and the whirring, glittering planets my mother,
the Queen of the Universe, lovingly berthed
in their courses.

our castle gleams in the picture window
flickering, the steam-obscured pane its shroud
of mystery,
and I watch his temp slide up and down the meter;
his father, asleep in the next room,
worries by proxy, and I recall

those long evenings in front of the TV
eating ice cream, flushed; my mother alone
with three kids, Dad out of town;
she never betrayed her fear.

And maybe she had a second glass of wine,
as I do now, watching the sun slide down the
tearful pane, into the winter dark
And maybe she wondered, as I do,
where he could be.

Monday, November 8, 2010

November

here is the thing:
a scarf that flashes like the underside of an oak leaf
the color of sunsets, rust, the hardened peel of a clementine,
that matches the fur on an old cat, a Tiger tom,
will come and go.

against the cold,
worn carelessly, a needed warmth, with glory
in the details; a needed layer, worn soft and slightly threadbare.
bleeding tapestry into the chilling earth,
tis enough, t'will serve.

i wrap the thing,
the sprawled and stiffened shell of fur and bone,
beloved in beloved, these material reminders, these gifts
buried in the weeds, mourned in passing;
a cat, on the side of the road,
a cat no longer.

a scarf no more.

Monday, September 27, 2010

it's been a long time.

because, for just a moment
I thought I had it in my hands
and did not need
to speak of it.

it came and went.
we were saved, and like sinners
everywhere,
we did not wish to be.

with empty hands I pray:

lead us not into temptation,
please.
but deliver us from evil.
and forgive us... please.
For not wanting
to be healed. For hunger,
anger, sorrow.

For feeling cheated of my right
to be a fool.

Monday, August 2, 2010

the dewpoint

if I lean toward you a little
you should be able to feel the weight
of my shape in water
pressing against you; and the slow exchange
of breath for life could be counted
as a net of colored molecules between us -
a transfusion of the elements.
if only we had gills.

I only hate the air conditioning because
it separates us, inflates the gulf
of dry airspace between, the crisp
discretely outlined boundaries
of our present agreement;

let's take a walk outside. there,
in the thickened air,
at least we are connected by humidity
enveloped by the privacy
of transpiration.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

untitled

lost in thought on the commode
Kahlua in your morning coffee
thinking about your inspirations

late for work

and feeling sorry for yourself.
folding paper, black and brown, and gray
shapes of shadows underneath the trees
origami stars come tumbling down like leaves
on a midnight walk,
a chance passed by,
the sound of something hoped for, underfoot.

but sorrow is inspiring too
and artists drink and dream,
it's a vocation.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

you can catch me

you can catch me when I land

you've shaken me into the air again and again
sometimes knowing well I'm like the pigeon
never flying far, following, always looking to return;
and then at times
when the clean sky calls me and the bounds of earth
appall me, I am something else,
launched from your wrist, and maybe waiting on
or maybe gone --
and I feel you hoping to me far below.

but that's because you stand

Monday, June 14, 2010

leaving the rectory

Closing the rectory door to find
rain again had come and gone,
though everything else was just as I'd left it --
the narrow path of pavers, damply darkened
and the droplets on the seat
of the bicycle, where I'd left it locked
against the rusted clothesline pole.

In the twilight breath of fully opened
earth, of the blades of grass on the tiny lawn,
cool air lapping into my eyes,
and everything still, as before.

Though I sat an hour before the picture window,
I never saw the fall.
As if I'd turned to catch some droll remark
of the father's, only to miss
the hushed passing of the shower,
like a curtain pulled aside, or the train
of the bride,
or the moment of sleep --
Something passed over --

and left us again.

I wipe the bike seat and the handlebars
with a sleeve, consider the nearby lilies
and the hand-lettered sign on the door,
and wonder without knowing why.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

grand piano truck

There are eight pianos in the church:
an embarrassment of riches.

We have three baby grands, stepsisters:
one brown as old shoe leather, mumbling
in a corner in her tattered robe;
one waiting patiently beneath
the cracked dome,
a jilted bride who hums and preens
all unawares;
and the old-money heiress, reduced
to yearning for young, afluent hands
in shot cuffs;
she is still sleek, still supple
and subtle,
and laying in wait, she seems to submit.

We own four uprights, jolly aunts
raddled by Sunday School generations,
scraped and banging and tune-
resistant, telling their tales
of merciless wickedness.

We have a grand - the great bony dame
lounging amongst the cabinets filled
with sheets of choral music, crumbling.
Forgotten in her faded ball
gown, grown weak;
til resurrected and re-tuned;
resigned to plunking schoolgirls.
And yet, thundering unexpectedly,
like a whale, she wallows in the dim
fluorescent twilight
of the music room,
her heart an echo chamber.

Into their lives, the moving men
with mob-worn faces and union cards,
with hard forearms and rolled-up sleeves, they know
their women.
Easing the curve of an operatic hip
and the slender reserve of a delicate leg
'round the frame of a door,
coaxing them out -- the girls
will moan and protest
and gasp in their shame at the wide-
awake world; the moving men
who know too well
the damage done, will curse
and wait, light cigarettes
and wait some more.
And gradually, with much creaking complaint
the ladies will consent to be touched
and promenade
with elephant grace
up the gangplank to
Jerusalem.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

may

outside the air is all lilac
and the inner thigh of the earth
is the promise
of resurrection
I hear the trains below
smell the backyard fires, no stars
and like the whore in love
resist the impulse

I listen, and think

oh, I will wait for you
to the end of my days
and sing my bullshit ballad
of your purity
I will lay down my Karen Carpenter
keep time
against the pulse of the hummingbird
snare, why do stars
suddenly appear?

in suburban alleyways
maternal mop and bucket
at my side
the night air smells of lilac
cats moan, trains throb
and I will keep time

Monday, May 10, 2010

the unknown choir

in the spring
or
at the spring
i cannot recall

the voices of those men in unison
playing their ungodly harmonies against my spine
so close I can hear their sinews
shivering
in the cold of Eastern Europe, in the careful
composition of state-sponsored culture
that has born unknowing
the ache of sex and birth, the keen of loss
in voice, in a simple air that leaves the mouth
across the instrument
of the soul.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

for Georgette

The gate of your studio is locked
though the mail comes and goes.

I play the coward:
last month I left a note that I wrote
on a styrofoam cup that I found
on the curb: came by, it said
thinking of you.

I know you're waiting -
not for me, but for his yahrzeit,
and the walls are bare.
White canvas, a void you can't fill: an imprint
of flesh on the bed,
of hands in clay, and the smell
of him, fading.

But walk a little way in the orchard,
and you see how the tree's roots extend.
The children,
coined and partnered now, and parenting,
aligned in their beauty, their faces
speak to you now of him.
In row after row of days
their hands still reaching up,
the seed bears forth,
and spring rushes over us.
And surely the people are grass.

You taught me
how to put stones on a grave
and I am foolish
but I stand here at your gate,
for the moment,
with empty hands.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

monroe street, 9 a.m.

there is no mistaking blood
on the sidewalk, if it's fresh
and each time reminds me of the last
and of the city:
people walking
their feet keep moving
in spite of the wounds
and they take the straight paths
whether or not
they have some place to go.

this time, it's a blood trail
just a splash, like a raindrop
every ten paces or so.
(last time was on the bridge,
the splashes were larger,
closer together,
and ended in a pool beneath
the bus bench.)

tiny drops, really
like a bloody nose -
a young man, I'll bet,
walking fast.
they never carry tissues. just let it drip.
it will stop
on its own.
Or, perhaps, it was
the man two seats in front of me last week
who could not stay awake.
full bus, aisle seat, the woman
beside him pressed against the window,
not looking.
he was doubled over his knees,
nodding, and seemed about to land
in the aisle. I hoped hard for a bench
to open up, so he could lean.

And it did, he switched;
now right before me. I could smell
how much he needed a safe place.
he kept jerking upright:
wouldn't even rest his head on the side
of the bus, why? wake with a start,
furiously rubbing his nose, and one eye
and he turned, his hood
sliding part way back, and I saw
the dirt and blood on his skin.
hunted.

but today it was probably some punk
instead; allergies, you know?
no one sees.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

untitled

the tale end of winter:
by degrees barely endurable
ascending
into air and light again,
out of the trenches

roadside snowbank layers shift
according to the tilting axis
and reveal amongst the leaden sediments
signs of passage:
things we lost

subduction:
as those same degrees at planetary pace
reveal the grim debris,
the earthquake-strewn, down along the fault lines
down in summer's ruins
low in the latitudes

the light shines in a bottle
(and the darkness does not overcome it)
one warms his hands over a burning barrel
(or a burning bush)
we dig away the filth that blurs our souls
we yearn

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Envy

for DJS


I've seen more tears shed in the daylight
than I've ever cried
Have watched the hours slide
across the sleepers' faces
silent, like weeping
Have cried my tears alone, at the bottom of night.

Can't make myself lucky that way.

There's easy grace in those who wear
their sorrows well,
who gratefully take compassion's arm,
and pace the widening aisles of peace.
I cower, coward in myself,
am only brave enough to covet the reward
for what I can't release.

And I'll grow older in the hollow rooms.

Tears left un-shed don't fill the well.

They trickle down the walls and sparkle
in the darkening air, hang like a haze
trapped in the beams
of passing cars, they make a noise like chimes,
like beaded curtains stirred
by breath of slumbers.

Envy is hungry, an open hand
where minutes, dreams and sleep
and memories keep
until they turn from tears to sand.