September 15

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poetry

It comes in threes
and here’s the third,

bad news couched
in benign words,

no, pareidolia–
man in the moon, Jesus

in a breadloaf,
such a hunger

for finding something,
anything, even terror.

You asked what you should say.
Nearby is the country

they call life
you will know it

by its seriousness.
Rilke. I don’t know,

nor do I want to, really.
Give me your hand.

September 12

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poetry

The day’s calvacade,
a clatter of hours–

this life could use
more sotto, more legato.

A thing is more striking
given the proper setting:

Consider a spotlight
in its wealth of darkness.

The weight of a caesura.
Excursive silence.

 

September 9

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poetry

The night before
a departure,

waiting
for that balm of

Not Here.
It’s supposed to

come in threes,
but between worse,

and worst–
I mean, I can’t

even tell
if this food

has gone bad–
implications are tiring.

I’m going
to the ocean,

to take in the water’s
endless rehearsal

and the steady,
steady shore,

to live
in the littoral–

there’s not one thing
that isn’t somehow in motion,

just I wish they 
sometimes weren’t 

September 8

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poetry

And like that, overnight,
the end of full summer—

a tainted glass, rain,
that striking first chill.

Oh there is something
so sad and lovely

about these first days
of autumn:

A distance
carries more,

an absence
weighs, a heart

grows blonder, gold
as desire, as early

larches turning
to fire, as bold gestures

dreamed of in quiet
hours, the night

gone still. The night
that follows the day,

the beauty and terror
of the inevitable, prized

apples and aftermaths.
I know why love

is depicted as fruit,
it begets itself, grown

ripe around the seeds
or stone, anything

for a taste
of what remains, forever.

August 18

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poetry

Still here, still,
here.

How many times
did she say it?

The practice
is yoking

together.
Sprawled along

the floor
like I know

what I’m doing,
Ujjayi, ocean breath,

now come and meet
this foreign body,

a little space, a little
more, a common interest

we seem to share,
now tell me more–

 

August 3

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poetry

An expanse of hours
an evening stretching open

like a mouth
cool breath

no,
cold

.

Watching the gulls
amid the old hotels

and new, so obviously
not homes

.

Anywhere
just anywhere else

but here

 

July 17 (in which I try to write and format a poem on a smartphone and it goes predictably badly…)

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poetry

The late-July breeze, distinctive
in ease, a quiet morning slipping by,
I wake and say I’m here! I’m here! somehow
still a fear of loss, despite the day unfolding
like a lawn chair, predictable, light-weight

.

To have, to hold– a leaf-dappled scene
a girder on the building, perforated
at regular intervals and the word
EMPTY over and over, is it a warning?
or a confirmation

.

There is so much space inside
these days, so little tethering
them in place, you think
an uncontrolled fall from there, 
you think the myriad faces, the counterparts,
negating, rescinding

.

A wisp of clouds here, but thunder
in the pass, maybe a loss
of temporality– a sweet sparrow
call, it’s so peaceful here,
so where am I exactly?

July 17

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poetry / Uncategorized

The late-July breeze, distinctive
in ease, a quiet morning slipping by,
I wake and say I’m here! I’m here! somehow 
still a fear of loss, despite the day unfolding
like a lawn chair, predictable, light-weight

.

July 12

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poetry

another day
box-like in progression,

predictability,
oh inflexibility

of time–
I’d rather

an ocean I’d rather
that ocean sound

that imperfect rhythm
constant yet

somehow revelatory
I know the pilgrim

changes it’s not
the pilgrimage

per se
but things are always

more tolerable
somewhere else