The cold is a good counselor, but it is cold. this is clear cold rain no mists in this forest just a deluge increasingly insistent saturated loam and inundant bridge— we walk on water in water one letter difference sure, easily dismissed but your feet still get wet— this the lesson everything is as it seems— an earthworm coiling in on itself a question answering a question the gray river silt the wind […]
a game, to step around the fallen leaves, to not disturb the early hours you can’t not face it properly cold out now and it isn’t a coincidence if there’s a causal link what comes next is mostly predictable
Day and night, vise-like, bookends to whatever this is. A return? Or stalled momentum. Pieces of salt, like stars, stud the black ice. This year drawn out to its breaking point– a twist of the champagne cork– anticipation is such a terrible ache. And this cold cuts to the bone. Waiting for a word, a sign, breath suspended in the frigid air, and fingers gone numb, only hurting when they touch something warm– a loss […]
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
The dawn keeps on dawning. What was it that I thought I saw? Quickly forget the taste of lime and salt, warmth that lingers like an honest embrace. Cold rain. The gingko piebald, a tree at half-mast. What is love and what is loveable? The vacant building has a gray façade. A gray car passes in the slick gray street, the fallen leaves too damp to lift. A heavy act, to turn away, withholding. Mark […]
colder this side of the pass rain and the threat of rain, almost worse i think for being imagined, and you couldn’t imagine the things i can think in the vastness of a room
Time like a river ebb and flow they said it won’t rain but it does seem likely the distinction of morning becoming more and more opaque and drowsy warm bedding regaining its succor half-asleep I turn my thoughts to you always always a comfort a bauble for my den
OPTIONAL POETRY 