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.

It is time.
The tocsin clangs and
I wonder if we will answer.
Will we
Rise for those who cannot stand,
Speak for those unable to speak,
Shout for those too frightened to be noticed?
Will we
Beseech, cajole, beg for the destitute,
Chastise the greedy,
Kneel for the abandoned child?
Will we
Offer comfort for the homeless,
And solace to the fearful?
Will we
Help lift downcast eyes riveted
Motionless in the shadows
By power that yearns for the past?
Will we be passionate?
Will we be decent?
Will we be true?
It is time.
And for this, I do not wonder:
There, but for the grace of God,
Go us all.

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.

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.

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.

The soft blow of the trumpet or
the strum of guitar strings cajole the uninterested
to see the hand-lettered sign,
the cigar box, the jam jar
as the loyal dog curls in the doorway.
The deaf, the blind, the besotted, the luckless,
all night thieves of blankets,
sellers of wilted roses on a double white line.
Ghosts on street corners who sidle through the rain
in search of some, in search of any
until a last breath among the silhouettes
of the night fires that lick at the black winter sky.

old man I see you
blue suit and bow tie
and hat placed neatly aside
cradling your coffee
an absentminded gaze
through the tall windows
and beyond
to the young passersby
in a hurry
as you once were
busily home to love
to soothe the withering day
love that you once had
but has passed
old man I see you
your eyes a fluid blue
still
wistful
locked in memory
bittersweet
vivid
that plays before you
to touch
taste
breathe
a pas de deux of passion
eclipsed by time
old man I see you
and you are not alone

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

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

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.

One need only tilt life's prism to
Feel the grey muzzle buried into the crook of an arm,
See the faceless sunflowers reach toward the light,
Inhale at tresses swung, and the release of attar,
Smile at papers strewn on a rainy Sunday morning,
Blush at a hand outstretched in anticipation,
And to close one’s eyes at the memory of a friend.

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

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

A glance,
A smile,
A hint of attar.
A word.
A touch.
My heart thumps.
A sidereal excursion
And I cannot wait until tomorrow.

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.

scales of desire tip,
time now weightier than fortune,
the more precious,
as it always has been,
gone unrecognized,
obscured by hale youth,
invaluable, ephemeral
allowing the echo of song,
the titter-laugh of loved ones,
banter of old friends,
hours with the hound turned gray
who clings to one’s hip,
silver windswept rainstorms,
ice-crested mountains,
frantic hummingbirds
suspended as still life,
the raw tickle of a running finger
along silken skin,
sin, regret, atonement,
recollections savored
of those who have left
as if brought back before one,
if only for the moment,
before recession into an ether world
and the miasma of memory and loss,
a gift for one to inhale the entirety,
and to expel it all with a ferocity
that says to those who will listen,
how I cherish thee

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?"

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.

The form is lithe, familiar,
A silhouette in bold relief
Emerged from the morning crowd,
Muting the surrounding multitudes
Who pass in waves each morning,
Their grey eyes, their grey coats
Moving, like me, in a depressed muddle,
Granted no relief,
Until today, now years hence,
The umbrellas part under the pall of fog
For a brief reveal, a respite from pain,
Momentarily freed from the unknowing,
Granted peace that she is alright,
Beautiful, serene, assured,
Belonging to no one but herself.

I fall into the dreams I craft.
Unshackled from the present,
I heal my aggrieved heart.
I ponder, fiddle with the past,
Shape time, trifle with fortune,
Fashion what could have been
And remain comforted until
I can no longer remain, for
There are others.    
Others who will not know
The bone-tingling joy of first love
Who will never see a sparrow hop
Branch to branch in the dead of winter,
Who face attenuated life without despair,
Who dare not dream for fear of want.
And yet they do dream,
Dreams infinitely more modest
And infinitely more powerful
Than my own constructs,
And I awake, silent.

The courtyard sits behind her home
Seventeen paces from the door
And inside its iron perimeter
Clusters of daffodils and irises
Hydrangeas and lilies are
All surrounded by large hardy plants
Resilient to harsh northern winters
She posted the fencing
And the pave stones and the
Shrubs and the flowers
She dug the bowls
And made them twice the size of the roots
And in the spring
She fed and nurtured the plantings
And tended them until now
As it is summer
And his marker has disappeared from view
The fullness and well-being of the garden
Enveloping the flat gray slate
A respite warm and lasting
Until the chill of autumn
Again lays bare the past

I’ll never be happy he told her.
She said it wasn’t true,
that he was young,
that he didn’t know any better,
that things will change someday.
And when they met many years later,
when they were silver-haired and slower afoot,
she said she was sorry,
that she was the one who didn’t understand,
and that he was right all along.
And hearing that, he turned slowly and walked away.

the people
the tide of people
the swarm hurrying across gargantuan
sun-streamed rooms as
they rush in a glide along golden handrails
before descending through smooth marble stairwells,
the people,
some tense, and cross, and expended,
brows furrowed, forlorn with unrest
while others,
the people
who walk brightly with anticipation,
indefatigable,
their comings and goings
each a new adventure,
life not waiting to be lived

I remember no words,

only the sting of hot coffee,

a hurried gulp,

so not to speak of your leaving

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

Evening brings the heft of the day
Tumbling upon me, burdensome and lasting
Until the first thought of you
Renders those troubles
A deliquescent memory.

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.

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.

A sumptuous lounge,
The deck burnished gold.
Twisted in a youthful tangle,
She awakes to fold a tanned calf
Beneath a taut thigh.
Arms extend upward and inspire
A long languid yawn.
Thick ebon tresses are askew
In a lovely rumpled mess
And beneath the lashes, the hue is one
With the mid-morning sea as
She pauses in a synesthetic trance
To face the white sails
Stark against their cerulean canvas,
And she smiles at the sound of sky.

The long dormant heart need
burst, explode, dance in the fire,
decry the years.
Dare laugh at the black angel,
howl with glee, a jacquerie of one,
for you are a presence, alive.
Astonish, before it is too late,
for the lambent eve wanes.

“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.”

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

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

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

I buff the rear view mirror with my coat sleeve
Crowded steps
Groomsmen
Shivering bridesmaids
A blur of white lace disappears inside
I slide along the back row
Old, familiar, burnished slick
She passes
Me to the aisle
Crisp scent of White Linen
The ***** quiets
I arch and crane
A glimpse
A profile wedged in memory
Then, a kiss to another
Collar up
I sidle away

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

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

promises unheeded,

fidelity unspared,

deserted, until rumor of another brings

a squeamish smile, a tearful display,

wordless performance for an audience of one

Seasons whirl.
Thoughts, moments retrieved.
An invisible sweep of the past.
Effortless, expected,
Until no longer so.
Images ephemeral,
Words shimmer beyond tether,
Pawed at, occasionally stilled,
Then, lucent as crystal.
Joy.
A diamond, treasured.

lantern raised
she yields not
to the untamed hand,
the empty heart,
the preening, the predatory,
that find the pure,
the passionate,
and the tempest that swirls about them,
to mark and groom,
their trust wrought for a singular end,
prevarications
to render truth writhing upon the
calumnies of acolytes,
the hardscrabble earth
where the courage and decency
of the many break and recede  
until wretchedly,
shamelessly,
forsaken