Spring snow, heavy
from the sun, as one
season slides into
another, jubilant,
inexorable, put on
a happy face and wonder
where has it gone?
No more sloping,
no more gentleness,
whatever I thought
there was, was wrong
and the only way out
is through. Truisms
and robber jays,
ice in the shade.
A refusal
Afternoon as threshold,
precipice. Mid-week,
mid-month, equipoise
and the cry of a woodpecker.
They say the snow’s
all done, and now
that it’s light
later we hacked
back the blueberries
that won’t produce,
severely,
taking them down
to the ground,
provoking life
from dormancy,
or: hoping.
An hour later, still,
shears in hand
going at spouts
and suckers
in the bay laurel,
getting dark out,
and cold, still,
to bring order!
An evening act,
as suburb lights
like unblinking eyes
go on one after another
oh encapsulated day
too small and every
meter metered
out bland
formalities
as measures
sun in a picture
but in this
distant window
rain the thought
again that
distance is not
mere physics
or even physical
enough corporal
work will teach
you that
quick
late morning, no snow
it may have rained but
is not raining presently
a vacuum cleaner running
somewhere, removing
the evidence, making
it possible to forget.
Somewhere near here
the tide turns away
a gradual recession
you have to stay
and watch to see
but it’s blocks
and blocks away
and not really ocean,
more constrained bay
and I recuse myself
from all sorts subtlety
this morning, bare streets
and indifferent traffic,
turn over in bed
and also turn away
they say snow but
who really knows
a word by itself
doesn’t mean much
joy today
like small shards
of glass, tulips
from the valley,
a busker’s hoarse
song, coarse threads
of sound and color,
saffron in its jar
closed tightly
and dreaming of artichokes
realistically
with fine threads
and coarse skin
otherwise this
winter might
devour me, at night
looking up spreads
muhammara, peppers,
roasted red, Aleppo,
the roughest cut
of salt, cumin
earthy as dirt,
rude scallions, but
in just the right
amount, tempered,
a counterpoint,
what lasts?
rehearsals for
the inevitable,
blue-blooded kale
and enough lemons
to drown out
the world, citrus
affront, oil
and pith, shock,
doctrine, if life
gives, you make
Does an emptiness
attract more space
or manufacture it
one or the other
such a nice day
after all, cold, clear
elevator affability
and sunlight
drawing in
everything
except those
cherished words
not anymore
through unthinking
neglect or
something more
willful
one or the other
and would it even
matter
it may snow
tomorrow
a line is drawn
never benign
no, this much
but not a breath more
a love gone
asymptotic
infinita tristeza
again and again
on the radio
a soft rain
walking up the hill
llorar, he’s singing
about the sea
a slow walk
with too much time
to think
viento de Washington
he sings as if he knows
you’d roll your eyes
like you always do
so stingy with words
I’d disagree Manu
en cuanto a la tristeza
it’s a desert only
and dying of thirst
but yes, slowly
cold clear morning
and nowhere to be
morning to noon
more sun on the patio
hors place
hors de combat
curling on TV
all yesterday
and today
watching a rock
go and then
come to a stop
and then go
again when
another rock
hits it
incomprehensible terms
but that seems to be
the gist of it
an object at rest
tends to stay
at rest unless acted upon
by some outside force
the sun pooling in
through the closed
french doors
Mornings up North
the roar of central heat
drowning out the creek
a sign of life
in a sleeping house.
Light rain, the snow all
melted three days ago,
it had lingered a while.
A drab bird turns and turns
in the holly, but nothing
else stirs. Read the news
but then thought better
of it. The same evergreens
here as home. Sometimes
a small distance is
sufficient,
and preferable.
Sometimes rueful,
cold, intractable.
Some clouds
drift up, dissipate
on arrival.
