Category Archives: New Writing

The Switch

The Switch

–then everything else which turns off at night
is the switch that turns on the crickets

is there a thing at all in cricketsong
that means I remember

that bridges the slow heaving wave
of frozen ground between years

is there anything
by which they know they go on

do they need to when they hear
with their legs by which they leap only forward

and sing with their wings which cannot take them backward
what else must a cricket do to prove it needs

no memory

*

behind my house at night I forget
I am in a city the song is so loud

like the earth breathing in and out
the owl marking his territory in the pitch dark

is absorbed into the song it seems impossible
there could be as many crickets on the ground

as there are cricket voices in the air
till the sun climbs over a rock and shuts them off

in the morning which is the switch
for ten thousand starlings to fill the space

with another season–

Looking Backward Across an Early September Day

Looking Backward Across an Early September Day

Geese evacuate beneath the moon’s thin retraction
Trees are whispering their new addresses to each other

and now the houses breathe without coughing
I shrug free and share the sigh of open windows

In the blue morning the sky’s a cut-out
key unlocking summer’s heavy stockade

When the world was upside down
you fell into my arms and I woke

Driving Through A Small Town Full of Churches on a Friday Around Dusk

Driving Through A Small Town Full of Churches on a Friday Around Dusk

 

The buildings vibrate like an old color
postcard whose message has faded

time lifting the letters off the back
one dark bit after the other

which now gather wordless on the horizon
rising without a message to take back

the sky which for a moment shows red
through the church steeples with no bells

Small Song

Small Song 

A late August night, a day after my father’s eighty-third birthday.
High in the walnut trees the cicadas make a sound that can’t be spelled.

It is there like a leak in the sky, behind the tall walnut trees.

It is the air being let out of the summer.

Letter to an Old Envelope

Letter to an Old Envelope

The emptiness you carry now
says more to me than words you once held

whatever it was long gone
not the message but the fact it was held

is why I held on to you
you carried those words across the decades

to where I would finally understand them
and now even empty you carry the name

of what became of what I wasn’t ready for

Bookmarks

bookmark

Bookmarks

Receipts from something not a book.
The tongues of fortune cookies.

An envelope containing nothing,
the tears folded flat.

It might have been the last time
your name was written by that hand.

A bill you wanted to avoid opening
now opens a click of space

bigger than money, traveling time
by staying still. Something not a book

waits where you left the words.
It will take your attention like a ticket

whose destination is next time,
which you will shove in a book

to hold your place when the
landscape carries you away.

Wading into the Surf with Fifteenth Century Poet Sage Kabir at Wrightsville Beach, NC, Along with My Nine Year Old Son August

WB

Wading into the Surf with Fifteenth Century Poet Sage Kabir at Wrightsville Beach, NC, Along with My Nine Year Old Son August

I agree, my friend, the water and the waves are the same.
Knowing their names does not make them different.

How quickly six hundred fifty years of wisdom
are occluded by a splash of salt water in the eye

as my son insists when we haul him again from under
his arms and up through the air that he be thrown

into the wave and not the water

July 7, On A Highway In North Carolina Between Thunderstorms Around Sunset

July 7, On A Highway In North Carolina Between Thunderstorms Around Sunset

The moon sticks from the sky like a cat’s
claw snagged in a dark gray carpet.

Except the room is moving, the carpet is
shifting until the entire crescent, unmoving,

is visible. And like something caught
in a dream it hangs there and does not fall.

Those things that are so much bigger
than we think they are. That are not caught at all.

On Drinking a Portuguese Wine on the Last Night of June

On Drinking a Portuguese Wine on the Last Night of June

This is how the month tasted, too. Full and lush on the front,
a vacation rental that is not too big or expensive but rich.

On the back, like the sound of surf slipping through the sand,
the taste of something going away, complexity escaping completion, dry on the tongue.