-To watch powder cling to sill and muntin through the frosted panes,
but not be chilled by that crisp whiteness
-To slacken on the back of spastic release – lulled by discordant heartbeats,
while feeling that they — and all — are in perfect accord
-To drift into slumber with no urgency and to awaken noncommittally,
sinking ever deeper into mattress and mind
-To love the snow for its beauty
as much as for its lack of reach
to sit beside a river
is to be Still
amid a moving world
a sweet break
from being that which moves
through the world
Worn one more time than the number of funerals you attend,
that black suit hangs forgotten — yet dreaded.
It hangs dusty in a closet,
or musty in a bag;
and you’re most listless when it has
a crisp dry cleaning tag.
In good years, it never crosses your path — or your mind.
In bad years, it’s needed repeatedly.
There will be a year in which someone will pull it out for you —
carefully smoothing its lapels —
the year you move beyond bad years.
lead boot sinking,
looking up to halo’d light,
a light that gets smaller & dimmer
as one plunges down through cold waters —
deeper & dimmer;
&
dumber & numb-er;
until there’s nothing left to exhale,
and every urge to fatally inhale
The sunset glowed orange in a wrap of clouds,
looking like the interior of a hollowed tree trunk —
fallen, split open, and with fire burning inside.
The vibrant colors fire my child’s mind —
colors as unsubtle in hue
as the clumsy building blocks were in shape
that I played with as a boy.
2020!
You are the time that tried men’s souls…
not to mention those of:
-women
-children
-the non-binary
-the undecided
and the un-huddled masses,
yearning to be close.
I watch the hawks —
watching me watching them —
and wonder how many of them I don’t see.
They’re better watchers:
-stiller
-more patient
-less swayed by boredom.
They stand, cloaked, as if in judgement —
Chief Justice of this street,
roving eyes in search of
one false move.
They are literal swoopers.
I’ve been accused of “swooping in,”
but I’m — at best — a figurative swooper.
Watch, swoop, catch, repeat…
The trail calls to me,
its grass-fringed part curving gently,
climbing upslope toward the trees,
the forest that hides hints of a future,
denying all hope of knowing what comes next.
I’ve built cities in my brain,
cities that no one would recognize.
I’ve danced around Dublin with Dedalus and Bloom,
but no Dubliner would recognize his fair city
from my mental projection.
It doesn’t matter how masterful Joyce is in his description.
I’ve only visited the version that I tossed up in my mind
as I tore through his poetry,
and which was torn down in the wake of my reading.
And yet I treasure that false metropolis.
It’ll do — for now.
The tender end of a creeper —
whip thin, light-green, and curling —
cantilevers itself across a chasm,
reaching toward our balustrade.
It pretends to be blown by wind,
but it’s just using the gusts
to lazily set its hook.
It will colonize our balcony,
if it’s given half a chance;
it will weave out our windows —
blocking out the sun
by the time we return from holiday.
It may work slowly,
but it’s more clever than you know.
People are intrigued by those shows &
books about the world “after humans.”
We show amazement at the projections
of how quickly nature will reclaim “our space,”
but shouldn’t we be the last to be surprised?
Tiger Riding for Beginners 