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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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