Tag Archives: poetry

88. morning

.

… this shadow drifting 

over the wall, and

soft scent of jasmine

under the tick of hot metal

as the sun hits the fence, one

bird shouting crazy

mad bird things, and you

must have the coffee on. 

look, 

the breeze,

smoothing a sheet

across my arm, hand,

and turning diaphanous

curtains, lace, lightly before

slipping back outdoors.

.

what could this miracle be, 

this awareness that I am …

87. four friends

.

four friends love my very bones, 

as if they’d never 

felt my sins 

crack against their shins,

fracture their wrists or

bite hard at their heels.

.

rich with enduring 

mineral (or miracle),

something old and willing

heals each one’s turn at being

broken across the back of 

fear, that blunt instrument.

.

such love … bone

on bone. 

.

86. how to tell a story

.

tell every wrong story to your

self as if you wield honest

hate, then tell it again

as if you are your own 

child. when your tears are

dry: tiramisu, a bubble 

bath, a good long look at 

each little old knife in

your back. did you 

.

forgive them their sins? 

why the hell not.

.

I tell myself a 

story that is true and 

still good in the end

.

because you taught me

that I could, and today

the sky is jet blue, one

bird absolutely over the moon for 

spring, shouting about it.

85. cold

.

i remember cold

so brittle snow squeaks beneath

my restless feet. i remember

.

cold so polished, breath

skates through barely touching

the body starved for

.

air. i remember cold 

so clean the world’s slow heartbeat

is visible, pulse

.

bumping lightly against

the thinnest sun. in my northern

home, a cold

.

so pure the very

air freezes, light particles

dancing near the floor of 

space.

.

84. land

.

my beloved land,

grass thick as beaver

pelt, light rolling across it,

licking the sky … 

.

oh

yes, clouds the very

breath of space and earth 

muttering east, rubbing against blue

so blue my bones ache … 

.

oh 

my beloved land.  

bury my now terrified 

heart. when this war is gone

drink down this blood.

.

how will we each live with each

other then, 

ashamed?

.

83. asphalt

.

asphalt underlies so many

memorable longings and 

questionable lovers: basra,

madrid, montalban;

empty highway ninety-five

soaked in restless

sunlight and angry

ranchers’ dissatisfaction.

my roads, lift upon

.

lift, shift against a 

subbase poorly laid.

asphalts stretch, alligator

thin skins a clever tease… my

roads do not run on and on.

my roads do not 

wear out because they explode. 

basrah loops as a flash

bright as cordite,

one fox running all out, one

tree out there waiting.

.

asphalt just lifts.

my road fountains and settles 

back whole just in time to lift again, 

disintegrating and settling, silently

and again, loops of exploding

asphalt. 

.

how I 

at times do long for 

the men known, dead now or those

not quite dead, still here.

.

82. baseball

.

crowds sound like

storms trundling in from the west,

tinny music one

sad thrilling background that smells

like burgers, hot dogs …

.

remember the crack

of bat, swell of radio 

cheers against cut grass

and a father’s pause

ho, pull on the beer bottle …

the dull humid heat

.

and one fly buzzing

around the grill, buzzing and

that screen door slaps shut. 

80. my brothers

.

dawn light empties each shallow 

cough and dies sagging against memories. 

we were a quickened lick

of endurance … now we are

ash, like our brother’s

ash, whether mistake  or choice. 

once we shared guilt and hope, now

even that shadow has washed out,

gone. 

you.

and him.

.

how I will miss you.

how I will long for

our tribe, shattered now.

.

empty houses

surround me, ghost murmurs 

and morning light, so painfully

brittle in winter.

.