April 15

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They told me how one architect
cast himself as St Thomas

to look out over
the rooftops

in perpetuity–
a sentinel of the Île,

to dawns, the rains,
those low gold winter sunsets,

the Seine grown vein-dark
by evening, bridge spans

reflected to form
perfect spheres of sky–

transient beauty,
it was a later addition,

the apostles on the spire,
nothing lasts forever

as it stands
and nothing stands forever

but they took down
those statues

a few days ago
for what little that is worth

March 9

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It has been a while
and it will be

a while more
still awake

waiting to watch
an hour disappear

shouldn’t be
it’s late

and getting later
or earlier

wherever you
draw the line

however you define it
looking through

your photos
to know a thing to have

to hold it
it must be late

to be thinking still
about distance

March 8

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At night the half
-constructed tower

is full of light
and nothing

else, each morning
recently it has snowed,

heavily, after a period
of rain, it is natural

and unsettling
what fills

the hours, open places
devoured, as if commodities–

mere weeks till spring,
and then what?

February 10

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How many words for snow
what could be

or sudden

sea change overnight
the gulls are beside themselves

the city roofs are white
ice-plated pavement

you are far
and likely to stay

that way
for a while

the sky is still
flakes dislodge in the breeze

whole trees dissolve
into white pixels

and then it all starts up again
like an orchestral chorus

overwrought and beautiful
it makes its own time

January 8

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It encloses and divides
of course not just physically

say them and we become
us because of what

we are not–
imply danger

like an impatient shadow
which makes this safety

but not for much longer–
so what has changed?

The sun got lower.
Sell it quickly

there is no time, suddenly
no time to lose–

loss is arriving
so deny it

be afraid so they
become fearsome

discredit suffering
or accept the precarious–

was any of this earned?
This side of the sunset

and so not that
could it be

so arbitrarily that
the lots are drawn?

Like a line on a map
in the sand–

you have to draw it
somewhere or else

it wouldn’t exist
and then where

would we be?
And who?

December 22

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this day was longer
than the day before it

late filtered sun
on snow-laden trees

winter is textural
rime ice and powder

everything built
upon another

cold pastiche
this punched out step

in a snowfield
an irreversible mark

sharp punctuation
but not indelible

this night this storm
will erase it

nothing lasts
not even nothing

December 18

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Such a long long way
to go and still think

maybe not–
call it a joke

or call it a knife
it gets the point across


Real snow recently
deep stuff

cathartic erasure
a blank slate

for a blank stare
for whatever can’t be said


Hesitation is an answer
delay is an answer

even silence is an answer
yes, it can be heard–

in the depths of the glades
my ears were ringing from it

December 8

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Blink and it’s gone
the gingko bare, not golden

any old tree now
another bleak gray day

could be any Northern city
really from this low height

every houseplant
shoved up by the window

for the the briefest glimpse
of light, probably too cold

and dry for the orchid
but mild discomfort

soft complaint
that’s how you know

you’re alive
the crepe jasmine

that never unfurls
its blooms,

waiting for something
that never

arrives, sometimes
it hurts to look at it