more
is the occasion

than not
but less than before

washed up on the shore
relics of shells

broken sea bells
that crescent the strand

cloudy brown or green or white
that gentle rub of decay

or whatever might
seek display

jeweling the sand
i keep to myself

jarred away
on a shelf

this new morning light
is not some mask
or a bright new coat to slip on
it is not a sign
or signal
of what was once
or will soon be

these waves are not
the fingers
of some dark leviathan
roaring forth
for my body
or soul
they are not
glassy cylinders
shattering into millions
of pieces on the shore

last night’s moon
was neither a pale coin
nor some other currency
of love
or mystery

these things just are
as we are
beautifully present one moment
and gone the next
you either understand that
or you do not

morning tapped
the window

go see
what night has left you

                                                       (along the strand
                                                   waves in bright sways)
                                                     )pitched salty sparks
                                                      in pounding sprays(

do not
always choose comfort

or seek the familiar
it is fine

to ignore routine
to hold hands

with spontaneity
to wake

from a sleep
undreaming

on the cover
of the new york time magazine

there is a man
standing

in the middle
of a crowded new york city bus

he is wearing
a perfect grey pinstripe suit

and a gorilla mask
one hand

holds the new york times
the other

holds a hand strap
my grandmother

upon seeing the photograph
for the first time

knows those hands
to be the hands

of her son

miles out at sea
far too distant

for the drums
to be heard

ribbons of light
split beneath the ribs

of a thunderhead
within the hour

the storm had tiptoed
off the horizon

and all those
around me

distracted
by more mundane things

were none
the wiser


                                      but
                                   let me
                              ask you this


when was the last time
beauty

stopped you
in your tracks?
laughed
at your silly deeds
and demands?

when was the last time
beauty

took you
in her gentle hands
and shook you
all to pieces?

the rains
have returned

as have the parrots
that riot down

the evening streets
this morning

a hummingbird
ash grey

and the size
of a child’s thumb

floating between
the branches

of a flowerless tree
slowly

things have found
their way back

into focus
into some semblance

of routine
and order

but small cracks
and fissures remain

open invitations
for grief

to come
galloping back

(did you really think you would be rid of me so easily?)

(that this would last only a moment?)

(who do you think has been filling your dreams with shadows?)

when life
and death

sit
in the same room

the eyes
of the unbaptized

are left open
above the baskets

of fruit
and the piles

of shoes
coffins hang

on walls
a cross made

of two broken branches
marks

a new grave


    bla ck b ird s wa tch fro m we ary wir es


please
let me finish

this thought
this breath
this life

there is no beauty
in their flight

a frantic choreography
as if taking to the air

for the very first time
twitching from one tree

to the next
but their color

such a giving green
and that breath of red

patched just beneath
each wing

says much
of their humor

their jocularity

will you have a look at us?
how the hell did we even get here?
and, really, who knew this would such fun?

a family gathers
at the foot

of the grave
in the shade

of a small tree
the gravedigger rests

upon his shovel
fires burn

by the roadside
and smoke hangs

like a halo
from the schoolyard

the children sing
salvation

salvation
one day

there will be
salvation

in the corn
                   er of

an autumn field
i found

the body
of a fox

(it was the kind of storm all weathermen wait for)
)repetitious ripples of dappleddoppler(
(within an hour all was scoured whitesmooth and silent)

spring will
un

     lock
the land

open
the body

two sat
too to

           gether
upon a rock

kisslicked
and smooth

by the passing river
a green-eyed horsefly

on
and around

his knee
her tongue

in
and around

his ear
he could not

decide
which was more

annoying

minimalism.
mnmlsm.
mmm.
mm.
m.
.

cl    ouds
cl    imb

and pile
with a sin

                gle st  
ride

they are over
the mountains

)lighteningteethmumblethunder(

sometimes
there is release

sometimes
not

but for an open moment

                                                         we we
                                                         are are
                                                     made made
                                                           to to
                                                 notice surrender

to this world’s
only power

he sweeps
the dead

leaves
into little piles

it is a simple task
but he is very old

and this light labor
exhausts him

) side                              to                                             side(
          ( in h is h and s )     ( a b am b oo m broo m )

what will you do
with your string

of time?
the slow notes

of motion
the blood-red bells

of heartbeat?
how will you measure

the fire
and surprise

of silence?

in the little
of the morning

red flag raised
and sounding

the air
cool moving

through
the trees

unsettles
loose leaves

the horizon
slides closer

stitched black
with lightening

bruised blue
with pummels

of thunder
first drops

blink dark
the dry ground

haloing
in the sand

before the world
shrieks

and sighs

there are moments
when the rain bells

and pebbles
against the window

when the moon lifts
like the ocean’s only coin

we move
roomtoroom boxtobox

we move
dusttodust

should any heaven hold
both sea and sky

my mother
shall have one

my father
the other

my grandfather
went inside

to get more bullets
in a voice

not meant
for me to hear

he said
to my grandmother

he doesn’t have the eye
his brother has

with shaking hands
with my final bullet

i put a hole
clean through the head

of lincoln

i remember me



                                                                stars cold
                                           in their constellations

                                                                dull colors
                                           windkicked into corners

                                                                one shadow walking
                                          with each hand empty




                                                                                                without you

the moon slurs
her words

plume like smoke
and feather fade

trace stitches
of stars unravel

black carvings
of birds

crease the netting
of trees

sunday morning children light
across the churchyard lawn

their grass stained laughter
lifts like leaves

grey tore
at the shore

and whitecapped
each wave

save
for the few

that tapped
my shoe

each gull
bentwinged dull

feathered sang of the sea
and of you

to me