February 19

comment 1
poetry
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Mornings up North
the roar of central heat

drowning out the creek
a sign of life

in a sleeping house.
Light rain, the snow all

melted three days ago,
it had lingered a while.

A drab bird turns and turns
in the holly, but nothing

else stirs. Read the news
but then thought better

of it. The same evergreens
here as home. Sometimes

a small distance is
sufficient,

and preferable.
Sometimes rueful,

cold, intractable.
Some clouds

drift up, dissipate
on arrival.

February 15

comment 1
poetry
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Winter, continued
tea and quince paste

on toast, hard rain
all afternoon

weariness, dilutional
a taste of Spain

the label says
I’ve never been

a dream dredged up
on a cold mid-week day

in an empty break room
in this damp gray state

February 14

comments 3
poetry
img_2842-1

This morning, walking,
a welder’s sparks falling

inside a building frame,
a cage of flames

and empty space,
of noncommittal sky.

Sactum sanctorum,
with its quietest corners,

a heart, too, is made
from many rooms:

antechambers,
foreparlours, endlessly

recessing, a heart
has no heart to it,

it is a door that opens
and shuts.

Passage defines it,
existence demands it,

a place of access,
and egress, that hue

of regret. Somewhere
along this way, honeysuckle

is blooming early,
with weighty sweetness.

This sadness, why?
Such is love’s transgression.

To think of Romeo on this
of all days. A season

progresses, but a morning,
it gives way.

February 2

comments 2
poetry
img_2673

a border is
a boundary or

a perimeter
that defines a place

in physical space
but in gerund form

bordering implies
proximity to a dangerous extreme

each sense topical
timely but also ominous

its antonym 
it’s hard to name

exact shades of gray
winter sky suitcloth

ashy ashen
censer censor

one is smoke
the other smoke

and mirrors
what is implied

implicitly
can still be false

scarier
is complicity

best to clearly state
a border is a line

and a line
can be toed

but also drawn–
(you’d better)

January 28

comments 3
poetry
img_2650

Unseasonable warmth,
a more agitated sunset,

or maybe it wasn’t–
anything can be anything, now.

Say it’s eighty out,
say it snowed,

say it’s for our good
and temporary

as if this
has never

happened before–
and I will say

that this sky is pink
and orange

as ripe citrus,
this breeze bitter

as pith, this wind
unsettled, this night

falling harder,
the way a fist does, or

a downpour, or
a spring-loaded door

January 22

comments 3
poetry
img_2645

A return again
back from the bay

industrial coast
the shipyards by night

and hunters at dawn
a dispassionate racoon

receeding into the woods
the day become a little

less wild

.

the difference
between a plea

and proclomation
not too much

both should know
better

this land intentionally
left fallow

.

a rainy drive
as forecast

charmless towns
without

that dutch blue sky
geese resting

and in flight
cursive, discursive

get to the point
or don’t

January 9

comments 7
poetry
img_2587

Twelve grapes at midnight
washed down with champagne

one for love and one
for hatred

one for kindness and one
for relentlessness

one for luck and one
for persistence

one for hope and one
for remembrances

one for going and one
for staying

and in all its sweetness
and for all its bitterness

another two
for love

December 24

comments 3
poetry

An eve, but it isn’t
an arrival if it doesn’t

stay. Sun on the bridge,
the lake like a mirror,

here suffused with gray.
The night still falls

early but the day gets
longer. Too cold still

to dig in the garden,
the onions can wait,

wrapped in their paper,
safely frozen,

dreamless, mute.
Il nous en faut faire autant

turelurelu, patapatapan—

French carols on

the stereo, blind dog
sleeping in the corner.

Down the embankment
small birds like afterthoughts,

as I wait for a word, anything,
an evening, an eve, the last sun break,

still waiting, turelurelu,
patapatapan, 
love is

a living thing,
consider the implication.

 

 

 

 

 

December 17

comments 7
poetry

I dreamed a door
swept shut

and felled a row
of empty bottles

that didn’t break
but scattered about

with hollow echoes
and you were there

saying careless, careless,
careless, careless

awake again
light coils

on the floor
cool-hued pools

of star and streetlamp,
making a cold thing

colder
sleep an uneasy truce

December 16

comments 19
poetry

 

What do you say
to a man who is dying?

A fact, just as it is
twenty-eight degrees

out, the sun set
three hours

and thirty-five
minutes ago, this is

a man who is dying,
but is still alive.

Careful, things fall
easily here,

this the greatest
distance, none

could be
further.

What hues
in that sunset!

A slow burn
over the bay,

the city changes
its face, harder

edges of night,
but ribbons of traffic,

headlights, taillights,
half coming, half

going, so graceful at
a distance.

I said it is twenty
-eight degrees out,

and of course it doesn’t
matter, there are no

tenable bridges
or tethers, no words,

no roads, this man
is dying, and

the forecast
says more snow.