the Diabelli Variations play on the stereo
     you in your world me in my own
with off-beat accents and a grand and solemn glow
     no one has come to see us, alone,
the theme in time begins a timeless, elegant echo
     although we might not know
maybe a little pompous as the mock-heroics grow
    our reflections come and gone
five, six, seven play in their various allegro
     we may never need be shown
matching our own Tempo di Menuetto moderato
     what has come to us unknown

The message has been sent
among the stacked corroborations
remain the only touch
perhaps night will
obscure the notions
honor, trust, courage
a remembrance of  things passed

the message has been sent
the water endlessly seeking the sea
an eternity
pebbles roll along the stream floor
underfoot
the water ankle deep
an moment

the message has been sent
within the certification
release the only intonation
duty, mercy, hope
all living things relent

stretched before me forever
new chains have been forged
the message has been sent

my love
seems a creature of the night
the moon seeks her
     as she sleeps
to wake and write her verse
     for me

     my love
would be a child of the lake
a sweet water
     pirate
having stolen my heart
to bury as her
     treasure

six and a half months ahead of schedule
the sky above me is turning black

nobody seems to notice it yet
the weatherman would have said

i leave on all of the televisions
and the radios in every room

i stay inside all day listening
trying to keep ahead of the plan

trying not to be taken by surprise
i wonder why nobody has noticed it yet

(if only i could see their eyes)
it seems to be happening every night

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

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..."

1
         i watch the ice
melt from the roof,

in slow drips, the one
     chasing the other down,

slipping to the pool of
water, edging out onto

  the driveway, where, tonight,
i expect it will refreeze

2
        and,
i wonder,

if i have given you something
and you have given me something

         a gift neither expected
nor intended

       will the sun shine any warmer?

there is no middle of the night
     only a beginning,
endlessly recurring,
     waked
by the body's vigilance
alert, for that hint of pain
like a woodland deer downwind
from his hunter, wary, agitated

woke last night at two am
walked out into the woods
down the drive to the intersection
all aglow from the blue moon
i can feel you in the muggy air tonight
     in the blue of the corona
and in the weight of the moon

when the new day dawns
we will seek visions
fully splendid with glory
but harder to hold, and
we will recognize each other
perhaps for the first time
for what we really are

but for now in the moonlit
street, standing here alone
all losses reassessed
to become as nothing
     inconsequential
in the weight of the moon
in the soft blue
night

i.
you fought like a tiger -
to stop me from rubbing
sun screen on your delicate
skin, you hated the greasy
feel, and so ran into the ocean
then rolled in the sand and
kicked sand in my face,
               at four
Great Hollow Beach, Truro
     June, 1994

ii.
you never could resist -
if we turned our back
even for a minute you
were off to find the largest
boulder, you would climb to
the top and raise your arms
in victory, and always, always
land in the water, wet and cold,
              at eight
City Beach, South Lake Tahoe
     June, 1998

iii.
oh, how Mt. Baldy called to you -
the giant of a sand dune,
moving inland as a glacier,
a sweep of sand blowing
from the peak ridge, like
the banner of heaven, but
i carried you all the way
back to the house after
you cut your foot on a shard
of glass, carelessly abandoned,
              at eleven
Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore
     June, 2001

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