This crushing craft

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This crushing craft

Inevitable shadows.
This crushing craft of being

a parent without parents.
Falling from a tree

As a nine year old.
Mapping the light as it spirals

Out of my dizzy eyes. Rattled
By reality’s gravity. Then the light

Gathered into the sun,
The swimming shadows into leaves.

The earth slowed down until
I could stand again. Now the sense

Is more of a sliding away decade,
Wonder with a sideshow of work.


In the south one day by a public library
An elephant’s trunk reached out for me

Through the temporary circus fencing
And I reached back. The vine of muscle

Coiled almost to my shoulder and held.
For a full minute we stood there

In a terrible freedom, neither of us letting
Go as everything else spun into shadow.

To the tune of a song not yet written

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To the tune of a song not yet written

I dropped my name in an empty star
the risers sagging with the rot of time

Found a hole in the ground but the sign says climb
Dad where did you go Son I’ve not gone far

By the streaky window with hands of a child
Drew a shape through my breath that I called Forever

Drew down the wind my heart was a fever
My lover woke me with the hands of a weaver

Mom where did you go Son I knew you were clever
Now the morning’s come now the air is mild

Son the house of your life is balm for pain
And your children ride the curve of the river

Son where did you go there’s news to deliver
And the roof does not explain the rain

The plague spring

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The plague spring

Spring blooms with empty streets.
Chain-links sprout and spread overnight

and flower with heavy locks on
the fences around basketball courts.

A few people drift by the closed library
like pollen, moved by invisible laws.

The sun buckles and stalls.
It’s the spring of closed doors.

We wait for something unexpected
that would signal the expected’s return.

Down the street a car sneezes and drives
off like it’s allergic to us.The pileated

woodpecker swoops in long arcs
from leafless tree to leafless tree

like he is sewing up a wound. When
his red crest twitches as he tightens

the thread, will there be pain?

There’s a sound everywhere this sunny day,

a faucet in the world being turned off. We huddle
in the quiet, afraid of being alone.

The quiet of the afraid is worse than the quiet
of the dead, who are not around to hear it.

Before peonies, late March 2020


Before peonies, late March 2020

One day you walk out your door, unhappy.
Your eyes roll with anger, looking anywhere

for relief, but find none. The agitation dislodges
a lash which falls, unmissed like a happy moment

not worth your time, to the earth by the walkway.
A season passes. The last week of March

you walk out your door, unhappy, head down,
your unhappiness fortunately angled so you see them.

They rise like something going backwards in time.
Like how memories grow. Curious, inevitable.

Snakes rolled over by countless tires, crumpled
yet rising to unheard music, enchanted maybe.

Each morning they elongate, uncrinkle, dance
slowly toward the sun. The crumpled snakeheads

fill with — what? — the moment you discarded
and the countless moments it created in turn,

filling like a reverse venom, crowding out the poison
tooth of regret, bursting open, these are all the

effects of your happiness, countless effects of being,
weightless and regal, dancing in the slightest breeze

or is that you dancing, crushed snake of a soul,
forgiving the wheel and opening to the sun?

Sheltering at home


Sheltering at home

The days of the week want to help me
But their name tags have faded

The house sighs for us so we can lie
Still enough to pretend we’re dreaming

Up on the hill the school closes its mouth
For spring and birds in the backyard

Sound the same though I seem to finally
Know what they’re saying. We’ll survive

Will you will you

Middle Winter [8] — Poetics


Middle Winter [8] — Poetics

Sometimes I stay away from my words
so I do not write the poem I should

not write  sometimes I call to my words
to make that very poem without me


Sometimes I build a poem so
carefully from the foundation up

over time, like a house. Carefully
but not like you carefully construct a

statement. That poem so carefully
built is no more a statement than

a house is. You can live in a house
or a poem but not in a statement

which is a small thin thing that is
laid on a table in a house and holds

nothing up nor lets nothing down.
Sometimes a poem is a raindrop

on a piece of paper on which
a statement is written, on a table

close to an open window on
a mild midwinter day.


The poem is a rock thrown from the moon.

Or the moonflower that furls into a fist at the
sun every morning.

Middle Winter [7]


Middle Winter [7]

Midwinter flows like a week of Thursdays.
On the real Thursday there’s an imposter

air about the hours. From the moment I wake
and walk the dogs outside, the morning rain

sounds dry, like pieces of paper running away.
On the seventh day, on the real Thursday

the thunder god will appear as I watch
the dogs piss on the earth, astride a leaf

in his tiny chariot of goats swept downstreet
by the runoff, and slam his hammer against

the midrib of the maple vessel almost
as if he didn’t know controlling the weather

doesn’t mean controlling the season.