Almanac
 
 
On clear days, when Apollo is around
I am a focus of deliberation,
everything goes well.
 
This condition does not last long.
On stormy days when Dionysius is up
to his tricks, my thoughts are blown
 
about like petals scatted in with debris,
down highways, under trucks,
into plazas, wells, sewers.
 
I live two lives.
 
A Libran, I say there should be reconciliation,
and pray to the God of Synthesis
for the impossible.
 
On the enclosed porch of boyhood
there is a green glider with arms like car fenders
and thick cushions covered in dark green
 
vinyl with yellow piping—“Let’s watch the storm
come in,” she would say lighting another Newport,
“Can I play in the rain?”
 
“The raincoat is in the closet.”  In the closet now
I keep a pressed white shirt and a torn parka.
There are hurricanes again in Florida.
 
In the storm, I long for the still day,
and in it I grow weary and want
to pursue other weather.
 
But only for a little while.
 
Somewhere in the Aegean
there is a white sepulcher under the sun
so bright it blinds.​