June 17

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poetry

Escape to the mountains
to see what endures–

the sun-baked alpine
packed dirt and scree

fiery wildflowers
strange butterflies

warming afternoons
a rock comes loose–

quiet more profound
after its absence

tread lightly
almost as if trespassing

on scalloped snowfields
glaciers, blue-hued, nearly holy–

if they won’t last
what could?

May 10

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poetry

We are on lockdown
Is what they say overhead

Cacophony of sirens
Shut the door quickly

No text pages no emails
We google 911

Mass casualty incident at this address
The halls are dead quiet

The blinds don’t fully cover the window
Isosceles of sunny day

Code blue ED is called
The news channel website loads

Breaking News: Live
Aerial footage of our building

We move the intern away
From the window

No audio
Police move diagonally

Something of interest at the minimart
Soundlessly the camera lingers

Someone gets a text
Drive by up the street

Report from three cars back
Behind the one that started shooting

Probably should still chart
Continue plan of care

Twitter says suspect at large
Twitter says somebody died outside

The streets are closed
Avoid the area

Tentatively doors start to open
Briefing in ten

End of the day
We’re overtime

It’s probably okay to leave
But not if you drove

The garage is still a crime scene
Use the main entrance only

News vans police lines
Yellow tape live mics

Before the briefing
Before the report

A woman crying
Sitting in the grass

People die here all the time
Just not like this

Still not unprecedented
Or fully surprising

But jarring
Scenes of violence

The surreality of how
It changes everything

Or nothing at all
Under a clear blue sky

This side of the street
Or that

April 15

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poetry

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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poetry

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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poetry

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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poetry

How many words for snow
what could be

long-awaited
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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poetry

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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poetry

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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poetry

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