so exciting, so fascinating, so
wholly fulfilling, so viscerally
gratifying to

think, to think deeply, to ponder
the delicate prism of our reality
and its' infinite possibilities

that one is left

giddy

in the park, the homeless stamp their feet in the cold

as the snow drifts down through the city

onto leafless trees, painting winter branches

white and still and voiceless

like the scent of crisp linens

from morning's first conscious breath,

she is life awakened

thoughts of tinsel and garland and stolen kisses under
mistletoe, of snow-covered walks, the prismed flakes
gathered garishly to glisten under the evening lamplight

of friends and family bearing cakes and drinks,
of hearty hugs and Santa hats, and toothy grins and silly
smiles of neighbors happily in their cups

the many pages since fallen from the calendar,
all shadows now, etched in their loveliest,
flawless in mind’s eye

A car pulls up along the shoreside and a man in a suit and tie slides out to find the sand.

The beach has quieted.

A few surfers paddle hurriedly out to sea for a last run in the twilight.

An older couple stands by the water’s edge.

Wisps of the woman’s gray hair flutters above her, caught in the ocean breeze.

The lifeguard station sits quiet, the small, whitewashed house perched on reed-like stilts shuttered for the night, though the sand is still warm from the afternoon sun.

The man rolls up his pant legs and removes his socks and shoes and places them beside him.

He shields his eyes from the splintered sun’s rays as he scans the water clear to the thick black line of the horizon.

A young woman, flaxen-haired, a surfboard cupped effortlessly at her side, the bridge of her nose tinctured white, emerges from the waves.

Wet-suited, bare-footed, head tilted skyward, she hikes along the sand, her day’s work done.

As her shadow lengthens over him, the specter causes him to glance downward.

A few grains of sand have clung to the tips of his polished shoes.

He decides to leave them.

We waited in our tiny den, my mother and me, waiting for my father, the salesman, to come home after the week’s traveling.

We hurried to the window as the headlights flashed across the glass,
excited for the weekend to begin.

He smiled as he entered, quietly looking forward to Monday morning.

Intimate tables. White linen coverings. The room, a checkerboard against the mahogany floor. Cozy nooks for two sit poised for the evening crowd, set against the wainscoting of one wall, a length of crystalline windows above.

A place setting removed, she sits alone, the amber light of her wine an imposter for the last shards of daylight that poke from behind a ridge.

She swirls her wine clockwise. Something to do with progress, he said. Or she read that somewhere. She can't remember which.

She finishes and turns the stem of her glass slowly hoping to leave an impression in the cloth, when a voice says, "May I join you?"

he found the bench where they always sat,
the one near the pond’s edge where the ducks

would swim close to shore, swim almost near
enough for one to reach out a hand to feel the

soft down, the way she always tried to do, and
when the weather turned gray and the skies

opened wide she would laugh and lick the rain
and say this is duck weather and we’re not going

anywhere either, and now that she is gone, and
he stretches a long bony arm across the top of

the bench to embrace an empty space, he hopes
for dark clouds so that he can tilt his head and

feel the drops upon his lips and
open wide for a mouthful of rain

the battle rages,

terror, death, grief,

the witness immobile, inconsolable

until the bearers of courage and kindness,

their selfless acts the true thieves of breath,

become the grantors of tears,

of sorrow, of joy,

of humanity

There are times I turn to the river,

when life roils and churns like the rapids,

and I remember what the river has always

known when it heaves and ebbs, and runs

swiftly by, carrying broken branches just

as abraded stones appear as polished gems

And on their happiest days,

they smiled with a broken heart

She sat down at the table across from him. She straightened her shoulders and spoke in a clear voice. “What are you reading?”

Startled, he looked up at her. He hesitated, then slowly closed the book, exposing the cover.

Her head down, she said nothing, only fiddled with a pen lying on the table, spinning it slowly.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She raised her gaze to meet his. She smiled. “I’m here to change your life.”

I have nightmares, Lisa said. All sorts of nightmares.
    
They stopped walking. Lisa looked at him deeply.

Can you fall asleep, Ben? Or do you think? Do you just hate and hate to think like me, like I hate to think? Sometimes I just hate and hate to think. So, then I want to sleep. But I can’t sleep. But sleep is good because I don’t think then. But the dreams, the nightmares. I have nightmares. So, I hate to sleep.

What kind of nightmares?

The worst. Aren’t all nightmares the worst?

 He pulled her closer.

They had been together from dusk. He had taken her through their old haunts and old friends, and others, familiar faces with broad smiles and without names, had greeted them everywhere. And now, on her doorstep in the early morning hours, she slid her hand behind his head and held it still as she enveloped him.

When she tilted away, her eyes were closed. Her lips lingered over his, an infinitesimal separation. The night air was cool. She eased away and turned up her collar. She opened her eyes to the blue-black sky and let her gaze search from star to star. Without a word, she was inside, alone, her hands behind her, her back flush against the door knowing full well that was the last time.

outside, amid the rubble, stands a mound two
soldiers high, made of bricks and mortar, and

cement and steel twisted up with everyday life,
where tables and chairs and beds and blankets

tumble carelessly, askew in the hot sun that beats
ceaselessly against a refrigerator toppled on its’ head,

and upon on a sewing machine halted mid-stitch,
the needle poised above the hem of a flowered dress

high above the river, from the edge of the cliff, one can
see the rafters in their inflated crafts, in the blue and
red and yellow ovals, bright and iridescent and suspended
atop the furious strip of gray as they wend below, lifting,

twisting, careening as their vessels sprout sodden arms that
grip scarred paddles, paddles that swing quick and deep  
into the foam only to then be held still and wide to the water,
a thousand rudders to navigate the rocks and avoid the

hard realities that rise in the shallows and are revealed  
without warning, some only to scream haplessly like
funhouse monsters, while the others lie dangerously quiet,  
unseen under the surface, until at river's tail the rafters

lift their oars in triumph amid the mirror-like calm, life’s
vagaries conquered for the moment

A crowded café, bustling, boisterous, filled with jocular
talk and the ardent gossip of young men and women,
a salesman’s smarmy sincerity, and the deft, placid
intonations of desire over two cappuccinos with skim milk,

and she is there, in the corner, against the brick wall, sipping
unadorned Earl Grey, and then a zoom focus, her presence
enhanced, the room falls away, and the chatter quiets into a
cushioning white noise, background to the film he has constructed,

and with the leads filled, the location set, the supporting cast in place,
now, the script.

In a stairwell, steps below the sidewalk, he huddled over a small flame that licked from a coffee can. He positioned himself to block the light to the street, and every so often he held a hand above the flame and quickly opened and closed his fingers. He stamped his feet in the snow, each time sending out a muffled whoosh when a shoe hit powder. He wiggled his fingers over the heat, and his mittens crackled when brought too close to the fire.
    
Across the street, a limestone building, a hotel, small, elegant, rose several stories high. Inside, on the ground floor, behind the belted velvet drapes, a cocktail lounge gleamed. A glistening mahogany bar ran the length of the room where guests disappeared into overstuffed chairs that were neatly placed in pairs and set against the arched, crystalline windows.

Inside the coolly lighted room, he watched a young woman with silky hair and sleepy eyes as she ran a finger around the rim of her drink. The woman glanced once at the silent snow falling in the dark. In the stairwell, he listened to the whisper of the fire and the beat of ice crystals as they fell against the steps.

I just want to say, right from the start, that I loved her.

Not in the neon bright light, two a.m. sparkling pavement, uptown New York City way. No, much more in the ice-cold Dos Equis’ beading in the summer dusk sunlight way, and in the way the sound they made when slid to us across scarred wooden bars.

Or maybe in the way she laughed when her fingers became tangled when she held a pool cue, and the way she didn’t care when she missed the ball completely – and then laughed some more.

But mostly in the way when faced with the poet’s choice of cowardice or courage, how she scratched furiously along the page, her thoughts spilling shamelessly across the white until she rested and read the words she had written, and when she knew she was no closer to immortality, the way she reached for another page.

In that way.

“Synesthesia. I have synesthesia.” She pulled her sunglasses away and leaned forward. “You know, the senses thing?”

“No, not really.”

“It happens to some people. Two senses become interlinked. You know, tangled together. Like hearing sounds when you taste certain foods. For instance, when some people associate a sound or color with objects. Like the sound of a voice might be orange? Some people envision numbers in colors, like me. I guess other people hear Mozart when they eat a banana.”

She giggled, and her coal-black eyes softened. “It’s kind of cool. I like to think it lets me see the inside of things. And there are no rules, not really,” she said. “Except infinity. Infinity has no color, of course.”

Her hair was dark and full except for a crescent scar above her left ear where her hair was clean shaven.

Behind them walked two white-haired women. The women stopped and laughed, and then they snapped selfies and then continued to walk and laugh as they looked at the photos.

“I wonder what I would have been like at their age. Just like them, I should hope.”

“What do you mean, would have been like?”

“Come on. I see you glancing at it when you think I’m not looking.”

“I didn’t.”

“It’s a thing.” Her face brightened as she widened her eyes and tilted her head to one side. “Besides, it isn’t real.”

Her hand made a sweep of the city. “It’s too nice a day. And I love it here. You’re a part of everything here. You know, some people believe that’s what happens. The good, the bad…the ugly, the gorgeous. You become part of all of it.”

She threw back her head and closed her eyes and reached up with both arms and wiggled her fingers at a single white cloud, twisting slowly in a tight circle. “This place is as beautiful as the sound of sky.”

the rain beats against the window and I see the

drops amass until each dotted soul swells, then

bursts into a rivulet seeking a path against the glass,

and some will pass through other streams, and I follow

their brief intersects, these capillaric rivers that fail

to merge, while others course boldly, seeking to

join, to find a parallel stream on likeminded journey,

and off to the corner of the pane there are drops

that fill and run, and then halt, and bump, and skitter

about, those carving a solitary course

it seemed inconsequential, at first,
an innocent reminder, a party next
week brought a quick turn away,
as if she had spotted someone across
the street, or perhaps jolted by the
thought of an oven left on

of course, it was neither, and
her gaze quickly returned, her visage
now sullen, acquiescent to the moment
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you"

some say she was born with a broken heart,
unmendable by word or deed, and now armed
with a quiver full of witticisms and deft vertical
palm, friends, lovers, the world, all held at bay,
lest they discover her sorrow

I find the river when I am kept awake by thoughts of you, and

at the railing, despite the numbing grip of wrought iron, I can see her

surface ripple in the winter wind, and I watch as the undercurrent

appears to churn and switch back in the twilight, unpredictable,

unknowable, a breadth and impulse powerful, resistant, and when

her path is curbed, finding her own way in a tumult of discovery

promises unheeded,

fidelity unspared,

deserted, until rumor of another brings

a squeamish smile, a tearful display,

wordless performance for an audience of one

I knew when your hand brushed my collar,

removing a thread,

and removing all doubt

her gaze,
a place of verity, uncompromised by
words that seek to betray,
uncorrupted by gesture, a place
where the gritty cannot be smoothed
with a smile, a precise machine, a scale
where each grain of assessment is properly
weighed, the result forged and steeled,
a place unmoved by desire, impervious
to manipulation, a place in which
to find oneself

they whisper to one another as they lie on the cricket-green

shoots of spring, where delectable images are conjured and

crafted into place, and together they dream of the pale,

white heat of summer, and blue curls of ocean water rushing

sun-bleached grains, and the sudden flash of autumn, always

a surprise, the most radiant leaves to be collected and pressed

between forgettable pages until sheafs of white lay atop

the country cottages, their bejeweled eaves sparkling for holiday

as the snow-laden pines lining the rural lanes frown under the

weight, a seasonal banquet expected, promised…hoped for

Deep breath, then another. I held my drink steady and began to walk

an awkward walk, a little too deliberate, my steps conspicuous,

almost silly as I feigned nonchalance until a fictional cough as I

neared you. Your attention caught. Was it also feigned? I didn’t want

to do any of this, this wasn’t me. But a promise if I ever saw you

again, a promise to oneself, that must be kept. And so, it was. How

could I have done otherwise, leaving you to chance.

at the corner, he reached for her elbow

and held it gently as they crossed,

her lips parting in betrayal at the touch

there was silence after she finished,
she thought he would say something,
expecting that, but she was
unprepared for silence, not now

she waited, just as she had
a thousand times before,
waited for a response, some
recognition of the moment

she closed her eyes and
she waited in the dark,
hoping his words would
call them open

the only sound came from
the noontime chatter of
the cafe, then a waiter
dropped a plate

startled, her eyes flew open,
and when she looked across
the table, his were now closed,
shut tightly, distorting his face

all she could think to do was to
slide her hand gently over his,
a tactile farewell, before she rose
and abandoned the thought of them

some imperious, red-lipped, salty-mouthed,

others drift in gimlet-eyed diffidence,

all gossamer now, clarity only to be

found in the reels of Morpheus

Winter is near, and night drapes quickly over the city, a black satin

sheath to be decorated by the early stars. But the skyline is

different, the glass and stone soldiers that elbow for prominence at

the river’s edge don’t shine bright until the river blackens out of

sight, not until the soft whoosh of the final ripples from the ferry

boats lap up against the pier pilings. No, the skyline sleeps late,

then awakens not for the city, for it stretches and smiles brightly,

before an open-mouthed inhale of cold night air, all show, an

opening number, a roaring, leg-kicking first dance for those who

stare and yearn, who pine in nervous indecision on the far shore,

tantalized, pawing at the ground before, perhaps, bridging the

pitch water to join the city splash, for if one stays put, feet planted

at a distance, beyond the parquet floor, well….

I remember no words,

only the sting of hot coffee,

a hurried gulp,

so not to speak of your leaving

muddied shoes neatly paired by the fire,
the leather seat crinkles under my weight
as I inch closer, full mug in hand, the
ceramic feverish to the touch

the flames lick and recede, past faces beseeching me to stay,
swallowing me into the warm past, familiar, my skin,
my bones inseparable, still part of the many departed,
a night’s respite before daylight and the need to move on,

the hearth, broad and crackling, it pulls,
not yet I think, as I struggle with my pack,
not yet, as the morning will be cold but bright,
the path branch-filled yet passable, a journey still,

not yet I think

I find the rough-hewn bench where we once met,

where my anticipation led to scribbled notes,

read and reread, each time returned to pocket,

only to be exhumed, unwrinkled, and memorized

once more, and sufficient to cause me to pace about,

to mutter, to rehearse hackneyed platitudes, fumphering

again, and again, until at last you arrived and laughed a

consoling laugh at my ineptness, enveloping me in a warmth

I had never known


And now, as I shift about, a gray spot alone among

the burgeoning reds and yellows and golds of the cool

autumn, I search the faces of passersby, knowing well

you will not be among them, yet wondering if I will

ever see you again

The grains fall through corseted glass,
time squandered, regretted,
opportunities irretrievable,
a life whispered, then silent.

Listen – do you hear the music?
It plays on.
Strut, leap, beam wide-eyed,
ignite a soul ablaze to

inhale the aroma of the lush
severed blades of late summer,
grin at the smiling sunflowers,
sway to the music of love,

broad-hearted, full-throated,
spear the brass circle, then cast it into the sea.
“Oh, that. That was nothing.”
A life to see.

I exist only in memory now, and as the shoebox lid is lifted

and my photo is raised, the effort brings her a smile, and as

her thoughts turn, the splinters of light flicker as if the start

of an old projector, then rat-a-tat images, the poorly spliced

film sputtering until I appear, a sepia vignette, my face

amorphous, gossamer, voiceless, until I am set down, placed

once again inside the cardboard container, the cards and

photographs, and old key chains and lucky coins and the pack

of loose razor blades gently moved aside by a careful hand,

the box destined not to be opened again until one yet to be born

lifts me to the light, the curious pencil inscription faded, yet

visage familiar, sufficient to return a smile of recognition

before I am lidded once more, a curious forebear, and as the

tenuous threads of connection sever, I suspend over the trash can

until a sentimental hand slides me back upon the shelf, the detritus

blown clear before I reclaim my perch, awaiting my chance to be

raised to the light again.

There, a distant rumble, a wistful tickle of memory,
of lauded youth, expectant and callow, and now,
hubristic dreams long swamped, regretted, he sits alone,
the past unspoken, the opaque night thicker, heavier,
the clock nearly sated, and the sepia promise of a certain
time tattered, irretrievable, he nods and brightens
at lessons well learned.

I wait, seated behind the arched letters of the cafe window,
riveted by others who move urgently, soundlessly, beyond the thick
glass, scurrying along glistening sidewalks,
winding between glaring headlamps in the slick night,
to lovers, to friends, to family, to home.
I remember no words, only the sting of hot coffee,
a hurried gulp to stanch the welling pain, and to quiet
the certain quiver of my voice if left to speak.
Yet once into the dampness, standing together for a last time
in the crystalline night, the balance is seared into hard memory
as I watch you lift a speck from my collar,
grooming me, as before, and then a smile, wistful now,
and you rise on tiptoes to brush a wisp of hair from my brow.
Silent, hood now raised in the misting dark,
you find the corner of the red brick building and
vanish.

Elusive, mischievous feline, you confound me,

you are stardust, quicksilver,

a pink-nosed rogue, indifferent to beseeching,  

oblivious to the outstretched palm,

and as I lean near to listen with all attentiveness,

you withhold even the momentary purr,

choosing only a quizzical look and a single blink

before the paw lick and scamper,

and the search to grace elsewhere.

A patient heart never tires,
as it sees all is yet possible,
dare believes all eternally imminent,
as it skillfully contorts the truth,
happily feeding the delusion
until the heart finally beats irregularly,
straining from ages of neglect,
famished from the absence of reciprocity,
the denial unearthed,
rendering the muscle damaged,
no longer capable of the largesse
which had long infused hope,
the brittle harmony broken, leaving
only the memory of what might have been.

The chill breeze, long awaited, finds its whisper
in the tall grasses,
tilting the hydrangeas, full and round, pink and purple
as the hewn lawn, more fragrant as dusk nears,
cushions the fawn,
the newborn to again perch precariously
atop unsteady spindles,
to weave through his mother’s legs as she pokes,
then slides through the brush.
And as I raise my brow over the hammock's edge,
the squirrels hunch and chew and hop in unison
as they laugh quietly, my idleness risible,
before a third and final turn of the paragraph
renders me drowsy, the tome now abreast my breast
as a lazy arm falls without the swaying catch in surrender.

Days once lived in anticipation, anxious for love,
yet ever hopeful for the ever lorn,
now lost to a world wary and frightened,
proximity the new Devil’s door,
the prescribed chasm much more than the height of a man,
as hope for a brush of lock, a goodnight caress, are abandoned,
leaving the embraceless many.

The breakfast nook brightens,
suffused with impertinent sunlight,
arrogant, intrusive, disrupting dystopian
anticipations to dare yield the repressed,
now untethered from their despondent moorings:
grinning, chubby-faced sunflowers
electing a cadenced dance,
the pump, pump, pump of Hip Hop
thumping behind bodega counters,
the ponies of Assateague,
slick with lather and hope,
denuded thighs shifting in languid heat
atop hillocks of powdered sand,
the Jack Russell hurtling skyward,
disc clenched, her smooth white coat
suspended against nimbus curls
tossed carelessly upon a blue-black canvas,
Aquinnah, hallowed, striated escarpment,
resplendent at the shank of day,
fireflies, ice cream, and the irresistible beckon
of the evening pines that rock to the day’s completion,
whistling, familiar, reassuring.

Sirens fill the empty canyons, heralds of a deadly spring,
while the images repeat and repeat and repeat across the screen.
Masked faces telling desperate stories of flooded hallways
and gasping hours, of fear, exhaustion, and despair,
of knocks on nursing home windows, of face-time deaths,
and worse, the prospect of triage roulette.

But outside, many fall silently, alone, as they lived,
remembered only by a neighbor’s tardy knock,
or atop the sidewalk grate, as they lived, and have now passed,
quietly, still forgotten, untallied in the daily count, to fill the trenches
of potter’s field that beckon the unclaimed, to be bagged and sheathed
and to soldier in neat rows, uncounted once last time.

The deadbolt turns and we move silently
along the perimeter,
cats marking our territory,
while panes sparkle,
portals into the nothingness below.
We sit and wait.
And wonder.

I still search for you,
or someone like you.
I am sad we no longer speak,
to love and talk the way we used to,
our thoughts unprotected,
like animals in the rain.