A tide imperceptibly rises,
a sun dies just a little more.
New lamppost starlight
blooms but fails to hide
a carpaccio of night
pounded thin and fried;
autumn thoughts of all sizes
clot in the gut, a bezoar
that might be a bitter cure
for tomorrow's sweeter troubles
which double and then redouble.
Yet even a heart-worn raconteur
reveres leaf-fallen days;
wind rips a brittle baize.

Pursuing springtime walking sprees
beside our dog, beneath the trees,
I oft detected some unease
amongst the birds and buzzing bees
as echoed by flat monodies
of clicking, clacking, knocking knees
(forsooth, reversed parentheses)
resounding pained discordant keys,
confusing triplets’ twos and threes
as if the tunes were meant to tease
with awkward stilted harmonies.

I asked a doc with med degrees
if he could, somehow, kindly, please,
suggest intensive therapies
that maybe might perhaps just ease
strange syncopations such as these
(you know, those eerie  melodies
that echo from my noisy knees)
before my family finally flees.

At last my doctor said “oh geez,
this is the worst of maladies,
so I’ll replace those  knobby knees
(they look like half moons made of cheese)
with stainless steel or manganese
or other metals such as these
as used in all such surgeries.
I’m sure the outcome won’t displease
(you’ll stand on legs, isosceles)
although there are no guarantees”.

Now that I’m fixed, I stretch and squeeze
with exercise my coach decrees
to aid me flex my new born knees;
and should I suffer agonies
he soothes the strains with frozen peas
or cubes of ice that make me freeze
and says “I hope my expertise
has helped to heal your injuries
and if you must, feel free to sneeze”.

With chiseled legs on racing skis,
I now can sail as does a breeze
o’er  nearby alpine apogees
(and view those sites that no one sees,
alive in eagles reveries)
and when in Vail, win jamborees
upon my new non-knocking knees.

When I met you, you were day-sleeping in somebody else's car
and running around scrapping all night.

With your shaggy hair and that roll of your shoulders,
you made me jelly-kneed right from the start.

Sunny, you kept your loneliness hidden from your running buddies,
your feet on the ground and your eyes on the stars in the Texas night.

I kept you coming back by feeding you, like some Italian mother
with a full pantry and a real bad crush. Come onna my house, birichino.

You had nothing, expected nothing, and were fearless, so fearless,
but when I fussed over some new cut you turned boneless as butter.

When I drank you turned to a rumor, gone like smoke, hating the stuff
yourself, and somehow above it. You made me want to kick loose of it, like you.

How did I charm you into staying, my gorgeous one?
How did we teach other what love was, with your silence and my words?

Til the day I die I know my heart is full of you, and all that you gave me.
I held you in my arms as you gasped and ran free, in the black hour of your end.

Oh, I learned to care again, about life, about myself, about it all,
but it took a long terrible while. and it was the hardest thing I have ever done.

Girls always fell for you like autumn leaves, light as sighs, stars of a moment.
I know how lucky I was to be the one you gave your heart to.

It's been thirty-two years and I still say your name and picture your face
every day. Even the angels won't be able to tame you--I won't let them.

Wait for me. When my hours are over I will find you. I will come running.
_

I get sad sometimes.
People shouldn’t get that sad.
It’s hard to watch.

I don’t get violent.
I don’t hurt the ones I love,
only myself.

I don’t know if I’m sick,
but I dream of the girl
sleeping beside me,
her arms open,
her eyes too sad for her age.

Behind her, the muhly grass burns,
flames catching in my eyes.

Sometimes I think
of my grandpa in his casket
a man who never loved my mom
the way he should have.
His corpse marked with stars
from a war long ago.

And I wonder,
when they close my casket,
what marks will they find on me?

If I think too hard,
I find answers
in the smoke of incense.
It smells like jasmine.

I have fought wars of my own.
And the first death
always happens in the heart.

night’s name steers me
to the silent reverie of your hands
for a fleeting moment
no dawn chases us, no time defines us
no shadow dulls our glow
without notice the horizon itself is drifting
my hands' yearning is as calm
as a wing over moonlit seas