A glass of Cru does not make one a Frenchman
   Though you feel it in flow through your veins
A pair of Lobbs does not make one an Englishman
   Though you will wish to walk like that again
A silk Armani suit does not make one an Italian
   Though your new style will be your gain
A parcel of land does make one a countryman
   Though you will hear the call of the plain
A part in a play does not make one a thespian
   Though you may know how to explain
A romantic kiss does not make one a husband
   Though she will forever live in your brain
An eagle soaring does not make one a shaman
   Though you see it fly through the rain
But the right woman can make you a gentleman
   And a soul can guide a humble man

For Shelby*

          I

O cover the gable in thistle
Let this place become unknown to all
To us only may this place be holy;
Let the moss wrap it up like a shawl.

Let the darkness prevent eyes from seeing
And hearts from remembering when
And the sun hide her grand face, agreeing
That no-one shall find it again.

Let the vines and the beetles crawl slowly
Devouring all semblance of worth;
O cover the gable in thistle
And draw it all back to the earth.


          II

Once this was a temple unfettered.
My heart and hers wandered free,
Free from Time’s shadow and terror;
Nothing would tear her from me.

My spirit was hers for the sculpting,
She crafted my soul by her hand;
Prancing and gasping and gulping
We devoured the joy of this land.

Never a footstep in error
And every omen a boon--
Once this was a temple unfettered;
A monument now to my ruin.


          III

This is the place where I carried her
And swore to protect her from harm;
Here her warm breath was my staple,
Here her bright eye was my charm.

Though the fortunes of fate might assail her
I am her aegis and shield
Unswerving, my love cannot fail her
‘Til the last of my strength shall I yield

See, on the hill, the black maple
And the wink of the rope’s one good eye
This is the place where I buried her
And yonder the hill where I die.

the tops of our trees, the lack of leaves,
with a pulse.
there's eloquence in contrast. Contrast.
makes up the tone of our days,
the fridays we choose not to wake up for,
smelling the sweetness of our cigarette against the coffee we were far too lazy to sweeten,
but there's beauty in the raw. in the raw, throb, of a break in routine,
in analyzing the why and where,
why i'm stuck in Virginia, why father stopped paying child support,
where a drink turns to alcoholism,
where people insist on resisting to a permanence in memory. Or,
the opposite, a beg a plead to remain.
to stay.
why he begs me to stay,
more so, why i push the love in my life away

There is a carpenter standing
next to a tree, waiting
for it to grow large enough
for him to cut it down,
and build a chair
for him to sit...

Quiet water, so still water,
evanescent pond.
Play of light upon the surface,
promising beyond.

Share your breath with silent evening
as it glides the shining scene;
projected tree-perspectives
limn the corners of the screen.

So darkness twists the senses
and it robs the breath of air,
draws the waters all together
and embraces its despair.

There’s a lateness in the hour.
(Has it always been this way?
Have we always been so old?)

Take a stone, just any stone,
a little pebble marked,
hold it out across the surface
of all-penetrating dark.

You see your face reflected there,
(though lower down by miles)
in the distant patient surface
that you hope returns your smiles.

Drop the stone (just any stone)
and watch it close the gap,
like a scribbled-over paper,
simply landed in your lap.

(Was that a bell?
What is the time?)
Feel the air, rushing, rushing!

Now see it hit without a sound,
or nothing ears can grasp;
imagine, then, a pounding heart
or a pleased but furtive gasp.

But though the ears can’t hear a thing,
through shadow spy the sight
of a thousand circles swelling up
and shimmering with light.

Spreading from the center
(though only you can see)
the ripples catch their share of light
and spread across the sea.