October 20

Where is the storm?
The suffused trees clammor.

Three sparrows perch
in the window jamb

and perplexed,
one’s brought

a  white feather,
an offering, for nesting,

or a sign of surrender?
Clouds edge out blue,

the ground still wet
from early showers,

under the eave
a sham shadow.

These double panes
don’t keep out cold,

they’ll shake with thunder
should it happen to show

to lively up these Monday
morning lows.


October 19

First thing this morning the first
bridge closed, running late,
and over my shoulder a pocket
of lake, under a scowling sky–

It’s hard to say why or what
has changed, but the flat
glint of skyscrapers through
the downtown corridor
was so real it seemed phony–

not tortuous as that turn of phrase,
but clear and clearly resolute,
a setting set, not buildings I knew,
although they looked just like them.


October 18

In enough fog this house
is a treehouse, everything
come in close,

a leaf recoils
from an unseen drop
of rain,

only reaction
visible, here, there,
the leaves ring,

and it’s all too simple
to forget antecedents,
the silence is lazy

-making, the forest
immense, the pines
too water-laden to stir

at all, and maybe it’s
the same with you.


October 17

Looking at a map these days
my eyes drift up to the border towns

or over to the coastal towns
and linger longer than they should.

Our eyes are meant to follow lines,
some of us follow them religiously

away. Today is the first true winter
day, the sun won’t rise against

green and gray as I get dressed
and drive to the hospital.


October 16

I didn’t throw it in,
but I didn’t swim out, either.

If you are the ocean,
certain, certain,

then I am the bird,
open, open;

we share no common
phases or forces.

Without some heaviness
it’s hard to generate lift,

and without lift we’re left
treading, treading,

so where’s the shame
in being an albatross

around a neck,
weighty, weighty,

in not being slight
in not being forgotten

in not waiting, waiting?


October 15

Sometime in the night the fever broke
and morning dawned cool,

drops of rain adhering to the handrail
like blisters, the maples greener

for their washing.  One to the west
is turning yellow, one to the east

is not, instead rusting in spots,
anthracnose, a disease of trees.

It’s hard to shake the feeling
that this winter might be rougher

than the last, maybe blight
is only blight but if it’s a sign

what else could it mean?


October 13

I haven’t been out east in weeks

but the last dream I dreamed last
night was of the coyote;

with unreal immediacy I watched,
unobserved, floating by as it prowled
the porch boards,

emboldened by the late state
of sunrise. I know it goes there,
leaving clumps of fur and scat,

but only when we’re gone,

until now I’d never seen how close
it comes to the glass door,

assesses its reflection, having moved
from cautiousness to callousness
a long time ago,

it doesn’t flinch but moves along
as the day opens up, a pink dawn
until my alarm wakes me up,

returns me to the cold dark cave
of my room