Third Shift


You'd think by now
I would have caught on to things,
to the rhythms of life, 
yet the days remain disjointed.

The same old conundrums
fall with the rain,
another wasted dawn.

The damaged create their scenes,
with iron-clad hearts they parade the stark
beauty of their disrepair,
spread themselves as thin as the sky.

Help me to take that inevitable chance ---
let's build a forest of loneliness together
where we might learn to love again;

while it is still summer, before
the cold wet winds of November come,
and the north-lands walk into the prophecies
of their fathers.

I am looking
for the inspiration of thought
that might save me from myself
and this overworked dread.

Too many night shifts 
at the factory
lead to dreams of sordid metaphors.

The insistence of morning
unfolds even the smallest pockets of night,
brings a rash of light
to the tiny tunnels beneath the grass.
             
Although the chasms
of darkness are breached
we refuse to accept the light,
though it is as certain
as our next breath.

While we sleep
something lingers, the day spreads without us.
We climb the loose rocks of fatigue,
look for familiar handholds, gamble
on unsure footing.





After You Left


The tiny purple flowers
that I picked for you
closed down, collapsed
upon themselves.

Today they reopened
like little bursts of forgiveness.

But you were gone
quicker than the thump
of a sparrow's heart.

So I document this day
for the blood-letting 
of birds, the death of foxes;

and hum a little ditty
that is absurd
and comes from my lunatic
in the attic.

I see the soft sway
of treetops in the distance --
tall trombones, sky-boned
and full of wonder.

As the day darkens
a groundhog
in the weeds
goes hurrying, scurrying 
for cover.

I'm going to lie down
and worry
about the possibility
of the phone ringing.

I'll be an empty basin
in the geology of thought,
as lightning
from an approaching storm
is reduced to the nutrients of leaves.





Ordinary Thoughts


I sit 
in the
remarkable 
sun.

Try 
to ease
this tension.

My brain 
lacks
serotonin.

My heart
is a
manhole cover.

Ants
go about
their business
as usual.

It is
August,
I am
alone.

The 
neighbors
are cordial,

the grass 
freshly
mown.

How 
should
I live
my life?

A cloud
blocks
the sun 
briefly.

I wonder 
what
dying 
will be like.

I doubt
the world
will stop.

A bunch
of spheres
are
rotating

around
our
solar system.

Beyond
that
I know
nothing.