Monthly Archives: February 2015

Another Reason Why I Wish the House Next Door Had Not Sold, Though It Is Still Abandoned

Another Reason Why I Wish the House Next Door Had Not Sold, Though It Is Still Abandoned

Out my second story window I would see great branches
flowing from an unseen maple’s trunk, striding on the air

to the roof of the house next door.
A month ago two men climbed the tree

to the roof. I watched them slowly saw, saw away
anything they could reach. The new view’s an old metal roof

snow sliding down its creases, winter’s white sky
and a single wren on the tip of tender branch up

where saws could not reach. I used to see squirrels,
a dozen in an hour, traveling branches like highways;

now while I don’t see anything I still hear them
in the gutter over my own window.  But I keep looking

where they used to be: the deepest view an empty one

The Morning After the Ice Storm On the Day After the Snow Storm

My children walk on the foot-high snow leaving no prints
I remember doing that the feeling of not falling through

of being lighter than snow I remember the days I was sure
I would never leave any prints that I could walk

on the surface of the world and leave no trace
then are the days where you feel you are nothing but prints

Nothing but traces and paths and trails and then the days
you wake up to another death and your son

is reading how it took two hundred million years
for trees to develop leaves and

then you are back to leaving no prints

Taking the Dogs Out One Night After a Snowstorm



Taking the Dogs Out One Night After a Snowstorm

The dogs a brown blur against blinding
white barely visible ridges and striations

Patterns of falling and wind-riddance
the shapeless back yard a single unique

print of the storm’s finger but nothing
weighing in as evidence more so

than my daughter’s bright red jacket
so lively against this erasure

like my love for that life and
everything that came before it

and the blue of the twilight
and the black of what follows




Something that was something
else yesterday

with no place to go but down
but not quite enough

to get away
and so becomes a spectacle

to change caught in between

like a debt or identity or

anything else imagined
but its own

weight is real enough
if you can

wait it out
that will be enough too

Under the New Moon There Is A Quiet Layer of Cloud And Beneath That The Coldest Day of the Winter Turns To The Coldest Night

Under the New Moon There Is A Quiet Layer of Cloud And Beneath That The Coldest Day of the Winter Turns To The Coldest Night


Any enclosed space is a temple. While we turned away
the sky came down and delivered news of the moon,

it hangs there just above the trees, a white ceiling
glowing from the light of streetlamps below, it waits

folded like a newspaper delivered but not yet read,
thicker and more important seeming than it will be

when it’s picked through and thinned out
and in some cases like my dad used to do tied in knots

and thrown in the fireplace with kindling where
burning it rises through the cloud’s cold floor

and brings news of the hidden world to the new
moon in its temple of absence



There is a door at the end of the moment.

At your signal everything you know pushes against it
and it is not enough

and when your knowledge comes back to you
shaken, injured by the force of your will

that is fear. Do not pretend you fear the unknown.
What you know has suffered and the damage

is what you feel. You must take them back
in your arms and understand them again

as if you never knew these things

and in a moment’s time the door
will be behind you

Midwinter Dream Fragments

Midwinter Dream Fragments


A silent movie walks into a bar.
Far off to the east  fragments of cloud

hover in the foreground, closing credits. The clear blue sky
revolves behind them like a child’s picture lamp

before it catches on fire. But the sky does not move.

Only the clouds are moving, their vacancy signs
flashing as they pass the moon.