ONE CRISP NIGHT in mid October, we went down the old fisherman’s trail, where the mountains meet the lake. This was before the trail had been maintained and tossed with wood-chips and at the time, it was a narrow mangled dirt path sporting thick roots and fist sized rocks at every twist and turn. You’d be foolish to not carry a headlamp and flashlight, for the woods were nearly impassable without them. We knew this, and we came well prepared even thought stumbling at points on the trail was inevitable. When we came to the light clearing in the trees, which was brushed with pine and spruce, and the tallest oak tree I’d ever seen, we sat down on two logs. They were wet through, and covered in patches of lichen and moss. Insects crept through the rotted wood, and night moths fluttered in the still air. Though half the world was asleep in their beds, and would stay that way till morning, the forest was wide awake under the crunching maple leaves.

We marveled out at the round moon, bright and pale in the sky. It hung regally, while it’s light shone upon the lake’s dark waters, holding our faces, holding the mysteries of the universe and the answers to any question we might have. Cradled by the natural world, we were. I’ve never felt as protected, since then, as I did that one night. It was as if Mother Earth cradled me in her own ancient hands.

and you watch me, as i look around in the pile of ******* i’ve built up of myself, and try to find anything salvageable

no, no, enough with them!  
let’s go to bed and wake up
soft with the sun
and sleepy with the moon on soft sheets
saturday night’s alright for fighting, for playing in the streetlights, for laying awake and whispering, for being with you

in cambridge i watch light peer through windows, and i think of you, always
my nostalgia, everreal in this city; a sinking anchor in the charles
i pretend to not notice the small blush blossoming on my cheeks, the smile pulling at my lip when i stand on cement sidewalks again, marveling at how busy the world can be

in contrast, the quiet wood of concord held solemn thoughts of worlds once known, of brick houses and plastered cellars, and beyond that
a world before settlers and borders and so many trees

i write for walden pond, a land of buried dreams, since water never forgets
for the sunlit roof deck on top of harvard, where you can see the whole world; the small winding roads, the ivy wrapped around trees,
for the bus rides between universes, stories, and loves

so keep this, something sweet for your mind when you wake up,  as you spend lazy hours in bed, and your plants reach new heights (because you will keep growing along with them)
and know when the yellow moon is swollen outside your windows, i’ll be thinking of you too, love

Sometimes she walks through the village in her
little red dress
all absorbed in restraining herself,
and yet, despite herself, she seems to move
according to the rhythm of her life to come.

She runs a bit, hesitates, stops,
half-turns around...
and, all while dreaming, shakes her head
for or against.

Then she dances a few steps
that she invents and forgets,
no doubt finding out that life
moves on too fast.

It's not so much that she steps out
of the small body enclosing her,
but that all she carries in herself
frolics and ferments.

It's this dress that she'll remember
later in a sweet surrender;
when her whole life is full of risks,
the little red dress will always seem right.





Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.

Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now will not build one
anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

Birds singing
in the dark
—Rainy dawn.

zwei irdische seufzer (two earthly sighs)

Outside, rain will pour down onto the glistening black pavement, while the bystanding pink white clouds hang overhead bashfully. Outside, the oak trees shake their purple leaves mournfully, shaking the excess droplets off of their sorry shoulders. Outside, only the faintest animal cries will be heard over the storm.

Inside here though, artificial light provides artificial warmth, and there is sour whiskey and scones aplenty and the thick curtains are drawn to prevent the windowpanes from exposing a sad truth. Inside here, smiles will be passed around the smooth polished table like candy bars, and young faces are lit up by candlelight. Inside here, things are bad but they could always be worse.