Crescent moon
mostly a shadow
mostly nothing
absence of light
each night
listening for
the voice
hearing it
wishing I hadn’t–
the matte of lack
having plenty
but just not that–
the rest is black
but this silver sliver
shiny as promise
pulling like desire
like a hook
through the mouth
the garage door
of the building
across the street
flies open
an anxious eyelid
creaking, sleepy
the suns sets earlier
and earlier
these days trail off
suggestively
this is sharper
an intentional silence
it says everything
it needs to
At first the quiet
like a balm
the calm eye
of a storm
but it, too, turns
evenings
like cupped palms
all that they might hold
what prescribes dread
instead of hope
it gets darker earlier
turning in
this cave of a world
and still no word
the thing about truth
is something is
or is not
it rained
then stopped
no amount
of shouting
will change it
interrupted
it begins again
it floats better
than hope
and other
feathered things
like ducks
with their distinctive
ambulatory style
and vocalizations
like low tide
but lower
like after the sun sets
still light but transient
block print birds
flying south
loss indelible
and loss suggested
lost a bit
too easy to float
in a darkened room
eyes adjusting
static, snow falling
on the ceiling
there are so many
tones of silence
this one aches
hollow as a bird bone
this down comforter
is heavier
it’s the air
trapped
between feathers
that warms
flight light
but more parachute
or net
for falling upwards?
It is an active quiet
low jets in their final approaches
cars accelerating
all departures
the lights in the half-finished
tower go out in blocks
goodnight, goodnight
the muffled bassline
of some song
in passing
the man-made geometries
of light against
a matte black night
no moon, no stars
just the bright cascade of glass
bottles into the bin
behind some bar
the city full
of emptiness
expanding out like a lung
as if physics, theoretical
downhill on the slope
no good faith
equations here
just step in
the hole
you didn’t dig
but why did you?
Normal order
Common decencey
nouns that lean heavily
on their moderators
an unfortunate
depenency
civility
servility
still a distinction
still at long last
sir at long last
or I guess not
The sky now the correct gray–
sea-derived, the summer’s fires
gone out, the focus
turning slowly inward,
like a tide returning,
an impartial action,
attribute to it
whatever you’d like,
it won’t attach
and it won’t last
and that is some sort
of beautiful–
every night a blank page.
The gingko starts to shiver
