He speaks of youth,
of a sky of wondrous clouds,
and eats from a blackberry bush.
He lives where grass is wild.
Time makes him rich.
He laughs at impotence.
He has seen great stones dissemble
and disappear as sand.
He is young like ocean spray,
Imperfect enough to laugh.

On a dock near St. Petersburg
they played “America the Beautiful”.
Old men in ill-fitting uniforms.
A cigar box for coins.
“How pathetic”, my teenage son said.
Was it their appearance,
their pandering,
the shame of Russia
toothlessly smiling,
loving *****?
Mighty Russia
in days gone?

From a far city
of little heart,
a beat begins.
Its heaviness moves
and unfolds in memos.
A blade cuts faceless names:
"There must be casualties
for the good of us all,
for the bottom line."
The unseen ax
is without malice,
without disruption.
Only bare offices,
and boxes of effects,
show the antisepsis.
Silence guards the halls.
Eyes fail to meet.
Only whispers and rumors
behind doors.

I roamed with nomads

on desert sand.

We lived with tents and sandalwood.

We were dark-skinned, and dark-eyed.

We sang and danced

to strings and drums  

ancient tales of love.

The stars at night

were our spirits.

We lived in a timeless way

on plateaus of horses and night fires.

We drank goat milk,

and ate wild meat.

And wisdom came at night

like a goat on young legs.

The sky seems near tonight
The stars don’t seem so far away
I lose my place in them.

The earth seems further away than the stars.
But the night and sky are one.
I’ll stay all night and have the whole of it.

I don’t really love the stars,
But we are farther apart than they.

The heirs of Cain and Abel
are brother against brother.
Between them there is ill will
and one is no better than the other.

I hope against  fate
that my vote will matter
and a good candidate
will emerge from the clatter.

"A 60 year old drunk",

the bus driver who dialed 911 called him.

At that point the Youghiogheny is deep enough for a boat livery.

Over an empty, riverside park, the sky is overcaste.

I tighten my coat and pull up the collar.

Firemen stand on the shore, hands in their pockets.

A fire truck, a van, a long-hooked pole, and a stretcher wait.

A boat  trolls under the bridge. One man holds a line.

Down a hill at the end of a street,

below the City of Mckeesport,

at a 50 feet leap,

a homeless man inhaled the polluted water.

He may have heard his own cry,  

but not the bridge traffic, the laughing school boys crossing,

or the white goose honking,

above his last jump.

I watch the boat a long time,

then walk to my car with inconclusive thoughts,

respecting what I hadn’t seen,

aflop like a rag doll in cold, dark water,

unknowing fish eyes passing,

maybe a friend somewhere unaware of the event

under the bridge that hovers over the river.