Poems
2019 Sphinx
In the presence of absence,
An upholstered sphinx.
I try not to look.
Peripheral awareness persists.
A view of the yard distracts.
I remain in the absence.
Another hour to inhabit,
to hear appliances,
to hear the walls
to hear the wind at the door.
This hour of closed eyes.
The slow merge into dark.
Lamps lit, shades drawn.
I lament under water.
Read until sleep eclipses.
You don’t know what happened,
how you slid to the floor,
your green eyes open without seeing.
You don’t know that you are gone,
don’t hear my keening in the basement,
don’t know that I sit in the presence of your absence,
but never in your chair.
2019
You dreaded winter.
I dreaded spring.
Spring is here.
You are not.
I look to October,
to November,
the ‘em’ and ‘ber of seasons
cocoons, a space here
a space there,
in a corner of the couch,
at the top of the house,
where autumn’s angels
stroke the window
under which I sleep.
The fall will come,
a missed step,
unheard
no one will rush,
The fall will come,
not soon enough
an end to empty days,
and unheard words,
my voice, your name,
days of doing
just to do
and now I ask,
fallen here,
would you mind,
my company,
my bones, your ashes
together in the ground,
or be free of me,
to the wind, to the sea.
You never said.
Sanctum 2017
Under the house,
under joists and conduits,
under heavy footfalls,
in a sanctum of cool dark,
the furnace softly exhales,
hidden functions tap and tick,
the shy centipede hides, uncatchable.
A pale spider, almost translucent,
beds down in the laundry.
We are refugees
from tomorrow’s tsunami,
the spider knows how to hide.
to be gone but still alive,
to merge with the visible.
To be gone,
in car and clothes that blend.
unseen at the rest stop,
not seen, the news said,
anywhere along this route.
To be gone among the pines,
painted army camouflage,
knee prints unnoticed
in the soft undergrowth.
To merge with the visible,
to not read
signs that lead,
that warn
as I cross the rails,
cross into evening,
through wisps of animation,
tobacco scented,
into pools of wet sod.
To be gone,
not seen yet,
not seen since,
anywhere
along this route,
the news said.
Exposed 2017
Better than outer,
this abdominal life,
cut down the middle,
tender lobes exposed,
a more honest self,
wet and quivering.
This skull,
drilled and sawed,
pink contents revealed,
coils, soft and moist,
a more honest self,
hidden sparks,
coded notes,
the mind knew
before the brain
leaked, trespassing into chambers,
shorting wires,
seeping into dreams,
gray dreams,
of gray men waiting in the garage.
Encounter 2016/2017
At the night mirror,
twin faces meet,
scan facial terrain,
and finger the crusty mole.
In the night radio,
under the buzz,
news of a crash,
a red light run.
Behind rippled glass
a siren wails.
In the bare bulb glare
twin eyes meet.
In the hum of tiled space
and disinfectant scent,
recognition falters.
One-Point Perspective 2016/2017
These cars, like the days
recede and advance.
In the rear view
the road narrows.
In the windshield,
the road narrows.
Vanishing points
behind and ahead,
in the side view,
tenses intersect.
Near the edge of a plane,
this line thins to a wisp,
a pencil hovers,
eases into lift-off,
Where to now?
Where the road narrows
and curves off the page,
toward the din at left,
the silence at right,
or the dot straight ahead?
Lead, sharpened now
lowers its tip, pauses.
Up and Down
The universe expanded.
The moon loomed, then fell.
Vandals threw eggs and walked on cars.
Geysers spewed from Saturn’s giant moon.
Sugar shot from a gas tank.
Lena sunk her car into wet cement.
Lovers exchanged a severed hand.
A bagged brain arrived by mail.
At gate 17, a silver disk hovered.
Ships floated over Rome.
What was that lump that fell from the sky?
Who threw the porch pot through the window?
Inmates
You are here the arrow says.
I am there in a dot
on the diagram,
a carbon speck suspended
in a drop of ink,
extended to a strand,
now neatly divided,
into neighborhoods of time.
In aerial view
a dot darts and glides
along grid lines,
the kernel of a life
in repetition.
You are there the arrow says,
between those bars,
you and your tiny inmates,
tricked by motion into thinking
you are going somewhere.
Intent
Forty cats. Fifty dogs.
Missions to find more.
Through the walls
a stench detected.
Normal they seemed
neighbors said,
neighbors always say,
but someone saw
in their eyes,
pinpoints of intent
not to lose
dense company.
First and Last
Clothes wait their turns
wait to drape and embrace,
conform to whims
of mind and body,
that proud, posing form,
the first to go,
laid out in a rose dress,
in a gray suit,
the corset already caving,
closing in on itself,
clothes and bones,
the last to go.
Ode
I heard from a distance,
along the Rue St. Florent,
Scarlatti’s song of sun on the Ganges.
Piaf and Pavarotti,
Her heartbreak vibrato,
His lush tenor
I heard from a distance,
I saw from the corner,
a tiny woman,
fingers splayed to chest,
chin tilted upward,
her mouth in an ‘o’
saw a large man, white vested,
white kerchief flourished,
his hands raised in triumph
to Scarlatti, to his own voice,
to her voice
to morning sparkle
along the Ganges.
Last Thought
Now we leave
the moon slivered through blinds,
Sherlock in the fog.
Now we take with
a last thought
that races down
brain corridors,
door to door,
as each one closes,
a last thought
that races toward speech,
toward the bureau of articulation,
knock, knock,
The throat, locked.
Now we leave.
Here or There
These stucco walls, frosted
into white waves,
festooned in ribbons of cream,
edible as birthday cake,
randomly configured,
troweled into fleeting forms,
governed by light,
visible then not,
an owl perched on a creamy crest,
an accident of being,
chance ridges and drips,
twin dips like eyes.
A wall away,
other eyes,
moist and moonlit,
the soft rustle of feathers,
and crusty shift of claws,
there by chance,
an accident of being
festooned in ribbons of light.
Here, its accidental cousin ,
clutches a plaster ridge,
swirled into being,
by an industrious hand,
hollow eyes, surprised eyes,
as if to ask.
Constellation
Here, in the dark,
I paw for planes,
backrest, molding, knob.
Along a cool wall
the chiseled nose of a light switch.
A distant snore gives pause,
a source of light leads,
digital dots, cool white,
a new constellation
borrowed from a diminished sky,
a random arrangement,
devoid of mythology,
no story to deceive
into sleep.
Atmosphere
A sense of situation,
hovers at the contours
of trees against gray,
a sense of having been,
in a place of gut comfort,
a fleeting fusion
of movement and light
into time and space,
into afternoon and corridor
panes of light
on a marble floor,
where my heels click
through pools of red reflection,
past wool tapestries,
into dim galleries,
of dense silence,
where ancient forms
murmur in my pause,
like prescient trees.
Door
These walls enfold.
This sofa holds.
The door knocks anyway.
This cup, that bowl reassure
with false promises.
My silhouette hides
in drapery folds,
my finger traces tufts.
This sofa holds,
these walls enfold.
The door knocks anyway.
Atmosphere
A sense of situation,
hovers at the contours
of trees against gray,
a sense of having been,
in a place of gut comfort,
a fleeting fusion
of movement and light
into time and space,
into afternoon and corridor
panes of light
on a marble floor,
where my heels click
through pools of red reflection,
past wool tapestries,
into a dim gallery,
of dense silence,
where ancient forms
murmur in my pause,
like prescient trees.
In the presence of absence,
An upholstered sphinx.
I try not to look.
Peripheral awareness persists.
A view of the yard distracts.
I remain in the absence.
Another hour to inhabit,
to hear appliances,
to hear the walls
to hear the wind at the door.
This hour of closed eyes.
The slow merge into dark.
Lamps lit, shades drawn.
I lament under water.
Read until sleep eclipses.
You don’t know what happened,
how you slid to the floor,
your green eyes open without seeing.
You don’t know that you are gone,
don’t hear my keening in the basement,
don’t know that I sit in the presence of your absence,
but never in your chair.
2019
You dreaded winter.
I dreaded spring.
Spring is here.
You are not.
I look to October,
to November,
the ‘em’ and ‘ber of seasons
cocoons, a space here
a space there,
in a corner of the couch,
at the top of the house,
where autumn’s angels
stroke the window
under which I sleep.
The fall will come,
a missed step,
unheard
no one will rush,
The fall will come,
not soon enough
an end to empty days,
and unheard words,
my voice, your name,
days of doing
just to do
and now I ask,
fallen here,
would you mind,
my company,
my bones, your ashes
together in the ground,
or be free of me,
to the wind, to the sea.
You never said.
Sanctum 2017
Under the house,
under joists and conduits,
under heavy footfalls,
in a sanctum of cool dark,
the furnace softly exhales,
hidden functions tap and tick,
the shy centipede hides, uncatchable.
A pale spider, almost translucent,
beds down in the laundry.
We are refugees
from tomorrow’s tsunami,
the spider knows how to hide.
to be gone but still alive,
to merge with the visible.
To be gone,
in car and clothes that blend.
unseen at the rest stop,
not seen, the news said,
anywhere along this route.
To be gone among the pines,
painted army camouflage,
knee prints unnoticed
in the soft undergrowth.
To merge with the visible,
to not read
signs that lead,
that warn
as I cross the rails,
cross into evening,
through wisps of animation,
tobacco scented,
into pools of wet sod.
To be gone,
not seen yet,
not seen since,
anywhere
along this route,
the news said.
Exposed 2017
Better than outer,
this abdominal life,
cut down the middle,
tender lobes exposed,
a more honest self,
wet and quivering.
This skull,
drilled and sawed,
pink contents revealed,
coils, soft and moist,
a more honest self,
hidden sparks,
coded notes,
the mind knew
before the brain
leaked, trespassing into chambers,
shorting wires,
seeping into dreams,
gray dreams,
of gray men waiting in the garage.
Encounter 2016/2017
At the night mirror,
twin faces meet,
scan facial terrain,
and finger the crusty mole.
In the night radio,
under the buzz,
news of a crash,
a red light run.
Behind rippled glass
a siren wails.
In the bare bulb glare
twin eyes meet.
In the hum of tiled space
and disinfectant scent,
recognition falters.
One-Point Perspective 2016/2017
These cars, like the days
recede and advance.
In the rear view
the road narrows.
In the windshield,
the road narrows.
Vanishing points
behind and ahead,
in the side view,
tenses intersect.
Near the edge of a plane,
this line thins to a wisp,
a pencil hovers,
eases into lift-off,
Where to now?
Where the road narrows
and curves off the page,
toward the din at left,
the silence at right,
or the dot straight ahead?
Lead, sharpened now
lowers its tip, pauses.
Up and Down
The universe expanded.
The moon loomed, then fell.
Vandals threw eggs and walked on cars.
Geysers spewed from Saturn’s giant moon.
Sugar shot from a gas tank.
Lena sunk her car into wet cement.
Lovers exchanged a severed hand.
A bagged brain arrived by mail.
At gate 17, a silver disk hovered.
Ships floated over Rome.
What was that lump that fell from the sky?
Who threw the porch pot through the window?
Inmates
You are here the arrow says.
I am there in a dot
on the diagram,
a carbon speck suspended
in a drop of ink,
extended to a strand,
now neatly divided,
into neighborhoods of time.
In aerial view
a dot darts and glides
along grid lines,
the kernel of a life
in repetition.
You are there the arrow says,
between those bars,
you and your tiny inmates,
tricked by motion into thinking
you are going somewhere.
Intent
Forty cats. Fifty dogs.
Missions to find more.
Through the walls
a stench detected.
Normal they seemed
neighbors said,
neighbors always say,
but someone saw
in their eyes,
pinpoints of intent
not to lose
dense company.
First and Last
Clothes wait their turns
wait to drape and embrace,
conform to whims
of mind and body,
that proud, posing form,
the first to go,
laid out in a rose dress,
in a gray suit,
the corset already caving,
closing in on itself,
clothes and bones,
the last to go.
Ode
I heard from a distance,
along the Rue St. Florent,
Scarlatti’s song of sun on the Ganges.
Piaf and Pavarotti,
Her heartbreak vibrato,
His lush tenor
I heard from a distance,
I saw from the corner,
a tiny woman,
fingers splayed to chest,
chin tilted upward,
her mouth in an ‘o’
saw a large man, white vested,
white kerchief flourished,
his hands raised in triumph
to Scarlatti, to his own voice,
to her voice
to morning sparkle
along the Ganges.
Last Thought
Now we leave
the moon slivered through blinds,
Sherlock in the fog.
Now we take with
a last thought
that races down
brain corridors,
door to door,
as each one closes,
a last thought
that races toward speech,
toward the bureau of articulation,
knock, knock,
The throat, locked.
Now we leave.
Here or There
These stucco walls, frosted
into white waves,
festooned in ribbons of cream,
edible as birthday cake,
randomly configured,
troweled into fleeting forms,
governed by light,
visible then not,
an owl perched on a creamy crest,
an accident of being,
chance ridges and drips,
twin dips like eyes.
A wall away,
other eyes,
moist and moonlit,
the soft rustle of feathers,
and crusty shift of claws,
there by chance,
an accident of being
festooned in ribbons of light.
Here, its accidental cousin ,
clutches a plaster ridge,
swirled into being,
by an industrious hand,
hollow eyes, surprised eyes,
as if to ask.
Constellation
Here, in the dark,
I paw for planes,
backrest, molding, knob.
Along a cool wall
the chiseled nose of a light switch.
A distant snore gives pause,
a source of light leads,
digital dots, cool white,
a new constellation
borrowed from a diminished sky,
a random arrangement,
devoid of mythology,
no story to deceive
into sleep.
Atmosphere
A sense of situation,
hovers at the contours
of trees against gray,
a sense of having been,
in a place of gut comfort,
a fleeting fusion
of movement and light
into time and space,
into afternoon and corridor
panes of light
on a marble floor,
where my heels click
through pools of red reflection,
past wool tapestries,
into dim galleries,
of dense silence,
where ancient forms
murmur in my pause,
like prescient trees.
Door
These walls enfold.
This sofa holds.
The door knocks anyway.
This cup, that bowl reassure
with false promises.
My silhouette hides
in drapery folds,
my finger traces tufts.
This sofa holds,
these walls enfold.
The door knocks anyway.
Atmosphere
A sense of situation,
hovers at the contours
of trees against gray,
a sense of having been,
in a place of gut comfort,
a fleeting fusion
of movement and light
into time and space,
into afternoon and corridor
panes of light
on a marble floor,
where my heels click
through pools of red reflection,
past wool tapestries,
into a dim gallery,
of dense silence,
where ancient forms
murmur in my pause,
like prescient trees.