Fall mornings, he believes, will show
The way back, stretched from afternoon
Above midday, an hour now
And then another, three more soon,
Arrested from the night and laid
Upon his plate with nothing more
Than coffee, toast and marmalade.
Resisting what he used to score.
The afternoon could use a source,
Some meditative carousel
To mitigate the old remorse
Of what has not worked out too well,
And what will come, familiar fright,
His long acquaintance with the night.

Wind, don't speak my name,
no squash blossom thunder,
no snap bottom rain.

I ask but a breath on dry tinder,
if just for a moment,
tender as velveteen fumes
between whispers, before a kiss
and her slow setting eyes,
while I, remiss in attending to time
and teeth, look back to the fall of things,
to the flint and the steel of things,
into the dull spark of advents
birthed into this chair,
this cigarette, this coffee,
this rolling silence,
to know that I,
if only for a moment,
have lived up
to all that I've burned.

A smattering chatter
revealed the prophet
to be a fool - a beggar -
a panderer to fear -
for bread, mercy or
perhaps, if luck
ensued - loose coin,
too much a pittance
for counting.

And upon the city,
the Lord of Wraths,
expunged of fatherly
duties, crushed
upon his children,
the light that was
Beginning.

Acrid wheezings then
and fuming,
ascended the ramps
to heaven
and cast the demon out.

Somewhere, someplace
I lost my way along
the way, searching for
the extraordinary
forgetting the more simple
things, the everyday ordinary
like the words for a bird’s
heartbeat, the color of water
in an estuary, the calligraphy
of the grocery list, an apostrophe
like an old man picking cotton
a woman long forgotten
drowned in the vagueness
of the ocean, a blind poet
comparing the sun to a rose
light slipping through blinds
hidden behind silk curtains
burdens born by mothers
worn and weary, left alone
the name for vines that grow
on silent children’s stones.

O! Praise upon the cloven-hooved beast,
the fawn, the doe, the buck
that bound and warily snip the leaves.

O! Praise upon the moose
its dark muscular tranquility,
slipping out then into shadow.

O! Praise upon the bighorn sheep
who cling nimble to cliffs and know
to climb sideways, cracking
resolved conflicts down
the mountainside.

For blessed are the cloven-hooved,
named and unnamed,
surefooted, fleet, horned and innocent,
that grace the graven icons of demons.

When she entered a room,
conflict dissolved like sugarin'
lemonade.

She has a kindness rare
for possessing such a dressing
down mind.

She free-style fingerstyled
her Martin with a well-trained swing,
and her voice could melt concrete.

She could outrun a gazelle.

She saw the world from a catamaran,
taking each swell in her teeth.

She took the world by the pants
and threw it down.

She picked it up,
brushed it off,
and let it know
that everything
would be okay.

It has been awhile
since we strummed
together.

It has been awhile
since she played my tunes
much better
than my cramped hands.

It has been far too long
and I am mute and afraid.

For that raging joy,
has been forever,
caged.

Only we raised crosses,
Gallows poles, ever spiked
The heads of enemies
Along the road to Rome,
Quartered our
Kind--horses being driven
Without understanding--
Ever made slaves a stock-in-trade,
Built cages for refugees
From places worse than here
In class distinction,
Worse leaders--imagine--
Than our own.
Breathe deeply and continue,
While in the place incomprehensible
Another slaughter,
Then another,
And who would give himself that
Name?  Reaper?  Personification
Of the inhumane, political.
A sleepless nation, terrorized
By lies and accusations,
Fear of swarthy siblings,
Ishmael, El Paso.
Pens and pencils, paper, crayons.
New shoes.  Notebooks.  Erasers
Left on the tile battlefield.

A plastic fabric forest of oak leaves
Some blue, some white, almost abstract in shape
An anonymous professional hand
Through unheard signals draws them open, then closed

My friend will be okay: “just a precaution
Overnight for observation, then home
A little heartbeat irregularity
We’ll get you to a room, something to eat…”

Beyond the fabric forest of oak leaves
Other voices, always soft, always kind
Softer and kinder still: “if you will sign this
End-of-life care, DNR, who can we call…”

A moment alone: “Oh, Momma…Momma…”
Whispered out into Creation

                                                       ­        and heard

The first time I saw you cry,
even the flies got wet,
worms scrambled like Israelites
before chariots and damp chaos.

I never knew your aunt,
but maybe this was your first
touch of dying.

You told me she gave you Chex
on the brittle days, cookies
on the soft lazy days,

Spoke Danish and laughed
because the horses knew the ways
and all the sisters were named for flowers.

The rocks tumble into the glade,
and all the flowers wither,
even the flies get pummeled,
and the nightcrawlers
drag the mapleseed down.