July 2

Heart, heart,
what did I say?

Oh the moon got into you,
the moon, the sky, the lake—

and then you went
and showed your face,

boldly, no hesitancy,
and so now, we wait—
 
 
How vast, this night.
 
 
And just like that
I can finally admit,

it isn’t that I fear
your loss—

what terrifies me
most is that

some day
you may be right.
 
 
Or some evening,
sitting up late,

like this.

Standard

July 1

Oh heart, heart, heart.

I will bury you deep below
and see what grows–

I don’t want to watch you
working, anymore.

Go cool off in a cellar.
Go improve with age.

I cannot stand your
incessant green chatter—

Go and let the sweet dark
earth take your edge off

and when I dig you out again,
I will freely offer up

your balanced sapor
to anyone who would partake—

that is, to any one
who had the patience

to wait.

Standard

June 30

This is no paint fleck peeling in the heat.
It is the scalene wing of a moth

adhering to the wall,
and if I love anything at all

it is this sort of thing:
soft subversives, surrealities,

the dozen moths
like unblinking lids

that I see now
where I couldn’t, before.

As if I would begrudge
a lack of luster!

I know too well,
this friable nature,

how a sharp wind
can lift away

its dusty armor,
or a too-clumsy hand.

If I was cruel once
it was also without guile–

surprise me, love
surprise me now

and I will never leave
again.

Standard

June 29

Night comes late now
and when it does

a corner of horizon
still glows like an ember

and so the day lingers,
reluctant to cede,

and the moon waits
to show its only face

again, starting to wax
or starting to wane,

how weary to be
a constant, let alone be

in constant motion,
if I were the moon

I might want to cease,
to disengage, to hide

away until here below
the oceans went quiet

for just one moment,
and if I were the tide,

I would welcome
the silence,

the serene
if brief reprieve

from gravity’s
endless aching–

Standard

June 28

Now overcast and sultry,
I miss the lake

and its heart-stopping
coldness. The pace

of life adapts–
the neighborhood cat

sulks lazily away
from the spray of the hose

upon its limp leaf lair.
A task for today: uproot

the snarl of bleached
pea-vines, shy spring

no match for this
heavy-handed weather.

In the distance, now,
what might have been thunder–

and now it’s truly summer.
I have no plans

that can’t be changed
so I open all the windows,

summoning, waiting,
to listen to the sky

as it crumples,
to feel the rush

of a tenderfoot breeze,
to put away work, impenitently

to while away
a day’s remainder–

Standard

June 27

Doldrum day. Such heat
and listless air

and a riot on the ascent–
snow lilies, wild columbine,

chickweed, yarrow,
blessed lupine

all strewn along
the unsettled talus slope.

Nearly a hundred
in the shade,

the salt on my skin
a mockery of snow.

Of all I carried
up, you were by far

the weightiest
thought—

the longest shadow,
the most insistent thirst.

For hours now
I have held petals

on my tongue,
rivers in my arms,

to offer you–
where have you gone?

Standard

June 26

Ikebana on the bar
besides orderly jars

of loose-leaf tea–
each photo that lines

the exposed brick
wall tilts out

at six degrees.
Even the mis

-matched antique
chairs are carefully

curated
(also holding life

transiently)
and oh what discipline

to keep it neat–
the art is restraint,

what grace, what
trust, leaving a thing

open
to suggestion–

 

Standard

June 25

I missed the exit
and the other exit

gathering the night
around me

the moon
the city lights

spilling out beyond
the interstate

I didn’t care
even as the road

narrowed into
farmland

loam unseen
but leaching

out its mineral
scent no stars

country dark
I had nowhere

and now have
nowhere to be

except with you
what other

destination
is there?

 

Standard

June 24

Earlier today
I was watching

sugar ants
make an easy

ingress through
the open screen door,

like spilt beads from
a split necklace,

recovering
themselves, bit

by amber bit,
making something new

but not unexpected–
The form reveals itself.

Or so we would hope,
tomorrow marking

a closer return
to our beginning–

what animal sense
has brought us back here?

A return being
at heart

the same
as an ending–

a prologue
in other words

Standard