It’s come down to hints:
clandestine signs in the woods,
vacuumed leaves hustling
to cover his rearview trail,
the pronated footprints
of pipers along the beach,
driftwood twisted like
something he might know.
His heart aches less.
An Italian tablecloth
cheers the room. He
charges softener salt
at Grossman’s Hardware.
He’ll pay extra, gladly,
for more heat, for lower
expectations roaring quietly
on this western front.

Once upon a then not long ago
enough the nows became
delicious, and every other then
took on its flat feel of “My,
how I have wasted…” Yes,

yes, you are who you are
because of blah, blah, blah—
all that dullness, too, that
boredom. But now you can love
the nows, love those who

show you, look forward
to a better later, even risk missing
this now or the next. Today’s
faint sun struggles to cast
yesterday’s delicate warmth—

but because it is now
here’s its half-fazing glow
through filtering clouds
and its more mottled effect
on water and the water’s still

steady sound and this alighting
bird who fans the translucent
arc of her tail feathers
through which you can see
the occasion you call now.