I've found the edge of the night.

As it turns out it's a lot like the middle.

Only more tired.

And you're not there.

Only the satisfaction of your absence is here.

Infinite absences

make the night so peaceful.

It's hard to read
even a simple poem.
It waits
like a net--
full of wide gaps,
dangling strands.
It's meant
to be spare
but it's so
easy to sail
through the holes
and miss it completely;
only to have
some vague memory of words.

Sometimes you turn and think
I should have paid closer attention
but the moment won't come back
and the holes remain
even from behind
just so wide
as in all consciousness.

You weren't there,
but this morning was a love song
for us.

The sky grew from black to blue,
birds awakened and sang
just as they have, year after year
for hundreds of years.

I uncurled my arm and rested it against your left side.
You did the same in your sleep, your arm clumsily unfurled over my torso.
We were each
equally warm.

The sky lightened
though the sun was still hidden.
The trees were then visible
waving and turning their
acacia fingers and flickers
and bowing and touching.

One bird sang on
of his empire.

You grunted and rolled awake,
and looked at me with a crooked, sleepy eye.
"Still up?"

Another night
swaddling stone.

In vain
I seek a face.

My chest aches
carrying the weight.

A siren wails.

I clutch the stone to me.
We are much alike.

A closed heart
can't be turned to light.

Your promise of joy
and release
means nothing to me.

If I set it down
my arms are empty.

night passes slowly,
the air conditioner hums and burbles.

he turns in bed
and the mattress wobbles.

from each point endless threads
span out in all directions.

I am not lost,
I have a wealth of choices.

my heavy, tense, vibrating heart
can soften and slow down.

each strand seems
like a feeble wisp

but eons are built
on this.

these paths
are enough.

the bed is still
and he sleeps.

the hum sings and gurgles
like a wise, rattling drone.

from here my freedom is infinite
yet each choice is the same.

peace comes only
when I accept it.

I’d like to write a little poem without words
like a very small flower located somewhere between
a meadow and the side of a mountain
opening silently, for no one at all,
certainly not you.

But undoubtedly a strange little rodent
would eat it.

Whatever goes on between us,
no matter how small and subtle,
I am afraid you might miss it
completely.

That would be a loss,
no matter how small and subtle,
for even in the heart and mind
we can watch the force of nature at work
and it is as much a rapture
as to watch great storms unfold,
and then to turn and watch one slender strand of grass
shaking, weaving in the winds.