Day of the poem,  


seconds the dog next door, his bark emphatic,
chain ringing as he shifts: a quick-clang
symphony, at least the first few chords.

Caught between the latest dream left dangling 
and this newest day, I wait for pleasure 
and the gear of:  Where am I, anyway?

Sworn again to never read first thing,
I read and sip the instant stuff, prolong
the putting off, resisting even bowel
which says: After all I’ve done for you!

Ah well (I answer, but…) the day is young
and there are hours enough to plunder through,
to banish with my ruder words what
other music taints the common air.

I’m an anyway, an artist, and true
is true forever, I suppose.  Even here 
in the rush and clamor of this city, 
where I’m blessedly alone, and clear.

Not There


Behind the headlights, behind the windshield glass,
the stars off sparking by themselves behind
grey clouds that all day more than promised rain.
On getting there I lied out my excuse,
no more than any scout might have to do.
The light inside was muted less than I
would have it be, my chair where it was left
from only yesterday’s foray, the drinks
along the wall, inert before the pour.
Some sort of incidental music seemed
to slink from every corner of the room.

The lie I told was gentle to the touch,
no harm at all to who was kind enough
to search for what I knew he’d never find.
And so I drove away and joined the dismal night,
but lightened on my way to what was next,
the roads to other incandescences of same,
bright in coming toward me, not quite blinding
from behind, arrived and heard the laughter
I adore and entered like a too cold hand
a glove that almost fits and warms enough,
but should, I’ve come to sadly think, be more.

-published in Little Star (2014)

Merida Morning
 from Mexico Days

I sit here working on the myth of joy, 
and never mind the plaintive songs a neighbor 
plays so loud at eight, exactly eight each shining day,
or the dog who’s chained forever to his stake, 
whimpering with rage or maybe hunger. 
Though today I almost envied him while
spooning in another bowl of flakes.

The black dog howls, and from the air itself
I think I hear an answer in a sound:
There is no other life than this, circumscribed,
familiar, just enough to tag our bones with meat.

Today I’ll make the sunlight clatter on the roof, 
slip down the walls and stones to skim the shadows 
where hibiscus simmer red and green and
dripping laundry is a momentary mud.

O blossom of  heavenly light, yes You
up there, the un-morose of templetops
and drinker up of all the wine and blood –
accept this little almost prayer of mine
before I step outside and start to live
the accidents of this awaiting day.

The Prodigal


Didn’t you go everywhere, lean
your leanness in to play the games,
make more new footprints in the sand?

The sun, the moon, a pear, a peach…
communion wafers on your tongue.
At noon, a coconut with rum,

or two, because all time was lost
(your watch slow melting near your hand)
and you were not afraid to wait.

Weren’t you a silhouette of light
who blinded everyone you saw,
and free, however that may sound?

And now you’re back, but where you’ve been
has followed you, and shadows here
are not your own, not yet, not all,

you’d left them all to us for life
some place that no one else could go,
for healing’s sake (you didn’t say)

in evening rites beside a sea
you needed more than you did those
who stayed behind, for shadows’ sake,

because we could, and not for all
the better reasons of a heart
in need of brighter, soft repair.

                                            –for Stacy

-published in Little Star (2014)