i.
i drag the canoes over the granite shingle
of our island's beach the battered Aluma-Crafts
leave my hand a dark metallic looking gray, which
even smelled of metal we walk up to the
campsite, a ridge, overlooking the lake,
spread out around a fire ring set beneath
pine trees so thick that no understory grows

ii.
as the long summer day cools we decide after dinner
to explore choosing one of the island's many
game trails, leading from the water back up into
the woods beyond the campsite, we pack the
food back into the bear proof barrel, grab our
boots and set off down  the trail

iii.
the pine give way to a grove of aspen, the
leaves fluttering as if by some wondrous
enchantment, as the shrubs started to grow
thickly on the ground channeling us into a
narrower game trail with the large, misshapen
granite boulders like a maze stretched out before us

iv.
suddenly we stood face to face with a giant
bull moose with velvet covered antlers that seemed
to be at least four feet across, he shook his head up,
like a horse shying, so i slowly moved us behind a tree
     to give him the trail

v.
around the fire wrapped each in our
own paddle-worn thoughts
we could hear wolves, calling
across the island in mournful howls
such a delicate balance of nature at work,
my moose so full of life and spirit would be
     safe yet from the
wolves

to save money
i turn down the heat
when everyone goes off
for the day, i work in a
home office

i noticed that fish
tends to hide in his
ceramic log when the
house cools later in the morning

he peeks out from the hole
to watch me as i walk past
on my way to the kitchen
or the laundry room

i know fish likes his
bowl in the hall where
he can swim and watch the
life of the house around him
but i worry that he may
get too cold during these
short not tropical winter
days

i carry fish with me to the
office while i work, and place
his bowl on the table, next to
the stack of books i have yet
to review, so that he may stay
warm  during the day when
we are home alone
together

fish has no conversation,
and although he has no
patience for the writing
of William Gibson, has proved
a marvelous
listener

This rain
won't wash the pain away
or give me words to say
but I keep on walking anyway

you came
took my heart for play
but did not come to stay
only here to make me pay

the strain
has made me lose my way
haunts me every day
colors all the world in grey

please explain
how nothingness holds sway
why life came to such disarray
just how the blues I can allay

this rain
won't wash the pain away
but I might find a sunlight ray
maybe, I'll keep on walking anyway

O, Death,
thy softly gripped hand,
has reached for me
with such deliberate
sweetness,
embrace me now
fully,
while I have been
spent in my
finest moments

sometimes
i lie awake all night
practicing my French on you
pretending i am over too

those nights
they seem to be so long
with everything gone wrong
remembering all i was with you

these days
they rush at me so fast
a woman hiding from a past
keeping me from finding you

she
is a love poet
     sentimental
composing beautiful
wondrous
     poems

of romance
longing which
     emerge
in particularized, idiosyncratic
rhyme schemes,

and
     stolen
is such a harsh
word

imagine lips
like delicate peach-blossoms
I await longingly fingertips'
suggestion

gold rush days
my California lover
never be another
she is the one
i will remember
she is my now
and she's my later
she is my map
and she's my treasure
she is the debt
i owe forever
very secret lover
agent undercover
she is my
gold rush days

i.
one dark night as
i left my silent house
the long driveway
lay itself before me
i looked back, down
from the driveway's
apron at the street
the house unlit
seemed almost
brooding back in
it's dark wood

ii.
the half turn at the
ancient oak, which leans
out over the driveway,
aching for light, and then
the gentle sweep of curve,
along the line of
stately maples, which
turn such a lovely
golden red in autumn

iii.
i could just make
out the main
entrance and chimney
side, the bedroom wing
hidden behind the
dense understory
of viburnum
it seemed to me
that Maple Ridge,
secreted as it was
back in Darkwood,
was much like the
life of the people
dwelt within

iv.
the dark and the brooding
had touched those lives,
like mourners on the edge
of some young lover's grave,
there in that dark wood,
the woman had believed
the man who dared
that love might conquer all,
and that being subdued,
had seemed better than
mere surrender

v.
but now, that bitterness
had leeched into
these very walls,
i had paused, in this
heart-stopping notion,
to ask myself what if
these mourners dwelt
there in this dark wood,
unobserved and naked,
now buried, in this silent
wood

lines so easily scripted
when so strongly felt
messages in rhyme secreted
telling metaphors here dwelt
touching of souls completed

almost true
seems to me your words
although endearing
are not really you
that now you seem
as partially hidden
almost blue
as though i have
said something
i can't undue
some vague trouble
haunts my memory
but i can't see through
what we say to one another
now seems to be just
almost true

i.
we drove north
on highway six
the night a perfect black
close about us with
neither moon nor stars
to shine their light and
cut the darkness

ii.
the pines hovered at the very
edge of the narrow road
making a long, dark tunnel
when, after a curve
just north of Nisswa,
we emerged suddenly
in to a birch stand

iii.
the car lights caught
the white birch bark
which reflected the light
an eerie white stand
of bright, white birch
in a pitch black night
the trees on either side
rising in a gentle *****

iv.
i heard the breath catch
in every passenger
and then, just as
suddenly, we are
come upon an
automobile accident

v.
the glitter of broken
windshield glass
flashed in the car
headlights as i stop
a car had wrapped
about a pole, the
driver's door open

vi.
soon, the drama was over
we got in the car to drive home
the whine of the tires on road
filled the silent cabin
the white lines of the road
the white birch trees with
their black shadows
the far-away moon in
the sky exactly over the road,
seemed now living their own life
apart and incomprehensible,
yet very near to man

vii.
it was the beginning of April
after a warm spring day
the night had cooled
a faint touch of frost fell
the breath of spring
felt in the soft, chilly air
the highway ran endlessly
through the northern woods

viii.
on both sides of the road
the night was lit by the
the headlights and birch trees
in the brilliant, peaceful
moonlight night
and all were silent
sunk in thought
everything around seemed
kindly, youthful, akin,
everything--trees and sky,
and even the moon,
and one longed to think
that so it would be always.

hot cheeks burning
tears salty and sweet
run like wildfires
burning off the undergrowth
chasing woodland creatures
down to the streams
someday, we won't remember this

passion drained us so sweet
clear the pathways
ravage all the fields
burn down the bridges
pull down all the monuments
someday, we won't remember this

souls entwined as lovers
brought down to her knees
drained of all blood
stripped of dignities
laid bare to each
but never felt so free

i don't care what's right or wrong,
i won't try to understand.
let the devil take tomorrow
lord tonight I need a friend

light the match,
stoke the heat
feel the burning
(no one here will get out of this alive)
and, someday, we won't remember this...

we had everything we wanted
not a care left in the world
we left all our inhibitions
in the hall outside our room
put the locks on the door, firmly

i could hear the traffic
moving on the streets below
but never even wondered
where they might all go
you took my hand so, gently

we had breakfast sent up
orange juice freshly squeezed
the bathtub water running
i wrote your name in the
steam on the mirror, Lesley

Dear Lesley,
I'm sorry to have to do this through a letter, but
last time your crying just humiliated
the other couples in your group session.
Although, this might save embarrassment,
and make me look better, now that we are
both sleeping with other people. (If you
can call conjugal visits to your ex-husband people.)
This letter may well be the last memory
you will have of me, if your social worker
lets you keep it as a memento anyway.

I am leaving, and I won't be looking back either.
I am sure you won't be surprised or terribly upset.
It is completely your fault, no doubt about it!
Mainly, it is your long history with lying problems,
even more than your alcoholism, that keeps me
from being even remotely interested in continuing
this relationship with you. (I told you I forgave
you for sleeping with your boss, but I guess I
never really did.)

You would be so much better off finding someone
that can accept the emotional baggage that
you carry around, the ones with the orange tags.
Maybe your analyst can explain that to you better
than I can. I must say, I will miss some of the exciting
times we had together. Like when you got so drunk
and flirted with my father at our family Christmas
dinner. My mom has still not gotten the red wine stain
out of the tablecloth where you puked on it.

I'm glad this is finally done and we can go our
separate ways. I think you will find someone else
with whom to have an unhealthy relationship based
on physical attraction and a passion for strip-club bars.
Hopefully, this will happen incredibly far away.

Good riddance, and Happy New Year.

PS Maybe you should just go back to being a lesbian.
PPS I have no idea where you parked your car.

i.
i draw my fingers
along the scars
you used to cut
yourself, a hidden
language, like a
braille of the skin

ii.
yet, you allow me in,
gently, my fingertips
trace hungrily
your tale which you
stack in the library
of your long sleeves
even in the hottest
summer days

iii.
words never served
your purpose they
admitted no connection
although those around
you noticed that
something seemed
to bother you, you
turned to secretiveness

iv.
you started cutting
so young, too young
really, to cope with
so much change
the power of your
own feelings
overwhelmed your
defenses, stuck in
a home, unsettled
a punishment and
a release

v.
i have no answer
for you, no easy
way to overcome
the compulsions
of the heart so
wounded, but
your own strength
and growing maturity
and the control you
have obtained
all seemed to help

vi.
you suppose that
you have written
manifesto
but, i recognize,
perhaps
autobiography

who shall answer for us
and what will be the meaning
our deeds, our lapses, and
our should haves too
it has come upon us,
like a great beast
our cities overthrown and
our temples destroyed
thousands die by famine, by sword
and our indifference
the water thick with crude oil and blood
and i saw the beast rising
amid the wreckage wrought
i saw the fire and the smoke
drifting, this way, and that
the pain, sorrow, disbelief
and what shall they say of us
no more than this
it is necessary to hate
those whom we must ****
to live we must conquer incessantly,
we must have the courage to be happy
compassion must replace fear
that is the fight worthy
of the straight gate and wide way
go into without threat
see the beast wounded
lay down and weep

i.
the rain falls down
in sheets now, blocking my view
as i stand here on the corner
waiting for you
i wish i was young again
i wish i was warmer

ii.
counting backwards
settles my mind
like a surgery patient
waiting for the blade
(although you never use
anesthesia)

iii.
the cab pulls
to my corner
you open the door
i take in your aura
a pulsing
which displaces
the air in the cab
so this is what
heartbreak is for

you said
the sky would never reach you
the pressure seems to increases
no goodbyes and no good reasons
just a time to pick up pieces
no good time to face the music
once we were not future seekers
the lightening serves to defuse
the energy defeats
the sky would never reach you
you said

in the end
when corridors
stand empty
lights turned low
linoleum buffers
working
back and forth
promise me
no lingering

abandon your lost innocence
and come to be my lover
maybe in that instant
you will know another

cling to me so fiercely
that we no longer wonder
what it is that makes us
feed the hungers

so meet me in this mystery
hold on to me tighter
abandon your lost history
and let us light the fire

a hot night, a cool breeze
static down the wires
forsake all your promises
throw them on the fires

can you feel the heat
sever the last fetter
we will not be free until
we get lost in our desire

i burned off the brush pile today
the last of the fall chores
although we have had a first snow
as well as a killing frost
i wanted to wait until our woods
were not so dry, it has been a dry
summer and autumn

watching the sparks fly
i turned back to look at the house
and saw you standing at the
kitchen window i waved
but you did not see me

watching the house lit
in the dark night, warmed
by the bonfire in the chill
i felt a deep contentment
as though it would be this
small moment in time i would
wish to keep with me forever

for it is these moments
out of which a life is made
without room for regret
for regrets are useless
standing before a bonfire
on a clear, cold winter night
a life of these small moments,
and i was glad of it

i chanced to see a
tin foil car
in the library parking lot
yesterday

the carpet, molding, side panels
all removed
tin foil
had been duct taped
on every surface that
was not glass

even the shift ****
and the steering wheel
wrapped and wrapped
in tin foil
a Volkswagen Faraday cage

i searched the faces
of the people about me
would it not be obvious who
would drive around in a
Faraday cage
listening to voices
chasing around
their mind

tin foil car
reading Julian Huxley
and muttering about telepathy
or reading Faraday to get rid
of those nagging radio-frequency
electromagnetic radiation signals
in a hollow conductor

but, then why leave the radio in the car

the snow has melted
in a midwinter thaw
exposing all the lies
you left so carelessly
in the garden
i see them scattered about
before the breeze
as i look out the kitchen window
i catch them in the yard
trying to pretend that
no one can see them
where they rest.
something has led us
to this day
chasing your lies
out on the lawn
cleaning up after you
(again)
but if we left them
until the spring
what kind of bitter
**** might grow
to choke the garden
with their nettles

i.
no love songs, now...no lost, no forlorn
no love songs to the mourn
awake (too late) mind racing,
words floating images roiling...
a poet's heart made empty,
boxing shadows in the dark,

a broken dreams club
a bell echoes

ii.
(like a boxer past his prime
sitting in his corner head hung, bowed,
slips his gloves and examines taped knuckles
as though they, too, have defeated him)

a bell echos
a broken dreams club

iii.
the muse abides, and, perhaps, at least
the poet may regain his voice but for now -
no love songs, now...
no laments, no elegy

a bell echos
a broken dreams club

iv.
every poets' muse -
fall in love, absolutely, true love is, for him,
the embodiment of his muse, indistinguishable,
the goddess, manifest in her absolute glory
and the woman, made her instrument -

a bell echos
a broken dreams club

v.
*what do i see?
a bowl with a quarter and a pocketknife
a lamp
a clock with dull red numbers glowing
a book of verse
and in the distance

a bell echoes
a broken dreams club

begrudge not
the time of others,
for this, too, shall be taken
from each, expected or surprised,
that from vast indifference
we have sprung
and so, shall return
thereto, with no pity, nor hate,
neither even
gratitude (if there could be such
a thing)
for it is the indifference
to our own fate
which might, eventually, make
all things, even this loss,
bearable

I.
time to hold, but i am falling down again,
as i call out your name three times,
and a rooster crows, somewhere,
and i am now laying in the dust,
of the road, beyond the wall
that leads into the square

II.
and there are lots of people, who are now
gathering in there, i can see that
they are angry, angry at someone,
maybe anyone, maybe me,
and maybe you, so
i call your name
as the rooster cries again
cries again

III.
but i have fallen, in the dust, on the road,
and i called your name three times,
i can hear the dogs bark at the
sound the crowd makes, in the dust
of the square, beyond the wall,
***** loud angry people shouting,
dust rising all around
your name three times

IV.
and i do not want to die, that is
nobody wants to die, and yet here we are
lying in the dust, and in the dust, and
fallen away, but all we have, for
we have all fallen away, now
and the rooster cries again

V.
and, i know now, what i have done
what have we done, all of us done,
and there is a great nothingness,
and there is an eternity, a darkness
and there is a day, and in fullness
and i know that i called your name
three times, what i would not have done
and i break down and weep

we had orange juice in jelly glasses
          that taste so fine
and a hundred broken promises
          standing in a line
you touched me with such tenderness
          it felt just right
to see you stretched out on my mattress
          in the morning light

we had white wine and compromise
          to last all night
bundled me off to nothingness
          without a fight
you spoke to me with such finesse
          as though a sign
with a hundred millions empty lies
          none of them mine

i have come to discern
a great breach
a chasm that stands
between
apprehension of the world
and the world
itself

like some character
in a play by Chekhov,
perpetually seeking answers
yet, offering no
truths...
as an eternal madness, a seeking,
ever seeking, yet
accomplishing neither end nor
resolution

a tune, played almost to
conclusion,
missing that final chord,
so that we see, that life has,
tampered...

(as grief enters, stage right)
"line please..."

once again
dawn awoke
with a simple
grace
life's breath

no one quite remembers
how this came to be

let them come
let them all come
in the remaining hours of daylight
i can see them as they run
down to the shore
out on the sands
of the impossibly green ocean.

it had been a hot northern California day
but as the sun sank low in the western sky
the wind picked up and the air got cold
i sat in the back of a rented Ford
when i saw you standing there
among the young surfers camping
on the beach near the parking lot
of the Clam Beach county park.

the most beautiful girl in the world
with your long gold hair
your back so strong
and your legs so long
you smiled at me
as you walked along
to the back of your car
parked three spaces from mine
you pulled your wet suit off
with your eyes on mine
i fell in love at that moment in time.

let them go
let them all go
in the fading black star-filled night
on this western shore
i can feel my heart break
as we drive away
frozen in my memory
the girl in the parking lot
at Clam Beach county park.

the little lies
go creeping down the alley
to hide

what sadness is found
lurking in the rainy night

in this
great sadness
now
we know,
limits
of endurance

the snows
will
never melt
in
the Himalayas

Now, may I speak with you
in a lover's language?

we would
all do better
if we
only
could

distances
here and there
today and tomorrow
you and me

tales of unrest
discord
we must forget
everything we know

poet's
confession
a heart's possessions
bleeding
all over the page

snowfall
on a cold
winter day
stillness
like a memory

You said
you were never
going back to California, like
a bad Buddhist
with a thousand lives to spare
yet, here I find you,
eating breakfast at Los Bagels
and avoiding the construction
on H Street like a native.

Well, I am never going to write
about burning bridges or
closing doors,
I just want to let you know
that I am yours and
I am so glad to find you
sitting, in the bright,
California
morning sun
eating bagels,
drinking coffee,
and remembering,
that our love is gone.

anxious to see me
she lies imperfectly
like stones in water

snow on the evergreen
becomes rain on the window
at once, being and not being

go to the market
see what a quarter will buy
with no time to suffer
no time to cry
you have to imagine
just how a future will
taste
a little bitter, delicate and
fine, something
beautiful and true
on the night wind
blowing stars through
vast darkness
clean, across the sky
not the whole world,
just a small piece for you

come to me, silently,
    during the night
speak my name, softly
    pretend it's all right
go to the fountain
    wish for insight
depend upon constancy
    keep a hold tight
tomorrow find trauma
    let your spirit take flight
come to me, lonely
a surrender outright
    trust in your nature
*now just turn out the light.

we don't talk about
life or any of those things.
we just sit around,
laughing and we talk about an
unclouded sky.
we don't want to see
heartache
we don't want to see truth.
feeling better than yesterday
feel better about you.
all of the time
we don't talk about
love or anything true.
count on tomorrow
but I don't count upon
you.
hold me tight and remember
the time I set about,
surprise for your favors,
something shiny and new,
but just ended up
blue.
November skies

suffer, such a small word
only two syllables, six letters
as large as a world

polishing the varnish
of just finished wooden floor
steel wool gathering