Told me to wait another two nights.
and the truth would rise like ice cubes
In a celebratory drink. Without taste
But accentuating the taste that’s there
Already, then adding volume to it
While weakening the taste but by then
It’s not the taste you’re after is it and where
Has it got to finally, absorbed, invisible?
The moon looks full but it’s not. Not that
It matters but it does. Like other things
That never happened but did anyway
And because they never happened never end
Dusk and Beyond
The dusk sky is a gameboard of bats,
everyone’s lost apologies for what
They knew they did wrong but could not find
The words to admit. Homeless things.
The poet’s night shift has me emotional–
The moon’s pendulum scythe swings
Below the tree line and I wake up astonished
To be alive. The poem holds a word
To my throat and the word is your missing
touch. In the world are some animals whose feet
Never touch the ground. Birds who only
Land on the uncertainty of open water.
Just as in you there are poems
that may never land on the tree of language
But whose wingbeats keep you awake,
Whose migration over open space
Turns everyone’s heads though they hear
Only your voice on a quiet morning.
From the tribe of Asher
The necessary second witness. Pointing finger of a lost tribe
Finding its place again. Behold the blessed castaway.
Even her age meant a completion and a return.
How can we trust anything when every thing
Means something? Is every father the face of god
Until the glimpse of the infant visage, God the beginning?
Seven dozen years waiting against the stone of the dead.
Father stone, husband stone. Waiting as the days dry up
To make the math work wonders. What else did she see
In the intervening hours but a name in another tongue
the same backwards as forwards? I would believe you
Against all the world believes. I cast a pebble at the well
And the hand that caught it before it fell
Idea of autumn’s end appending, calling a leaf
Bad for hanging on, for adding to loss its
Very material structure, surface-veined and colorful.
A sensual wave turned brittle, age as implement of end, extended–
That’s not bad. To signal with a last incommunicable strength.
No. Bad would be not waiting to watch it linger, then fall.
[#fullmoonsocial] Waiting for the moon to rise over the power lines behind the fields by the old school for the deaf and the blind
Home of the cardinals.
The train sound twins as it passes through
Echoing off unresponsive brick and glass
Over the darkening grass. It’s like there are two
Trains, the past casting an echo of the future
And then it’s gone, both of them
And still no moon.
Six late-August evenings (6)
Amsterdam Avenue. A memory of a memory
Hiding beneath the cooling street. Like litter
Chasing cars and settling without regret
Along the surface and away, further away
With every step towards the next autumn.
Whose wake are we in now,
Thinking we’ll catch up to them, finally
And make it right?