BACK IN BROOKLYN…

The latticed chain-link casts its’ shadow
and the gods skip a shallow grave.
Zeus ran a moving business on 4th ave,
but never could get laid.
The swan died at the doorstep,
the traffic box clicks Stop & Go,
the street light’s a heart flutter filament,
and I’m nothing, a propped-up ghost
standing between two lands…

PREDICTIVE SCRIPT

If you’re so smart, how come
you don’t just say it, my love,
my offal, my premature
transmission, my rapturous malady?

How come you don’t just say it,
a trench between the sentences,
the last place you wanted to dig?

How come I’m chasing myself,
when everyone else has left me?

BLUEPRINT

I see a ghost hand clasping as the cold
winter system flashes by....
a denatured glimpse, a fulcrum, a spigot,
a dead-end god, gone on the spot...

DOGWOOD OR MAGNOLIA?

The pink-blossomed heart
imprisoned from yard to yard
as the dawn light slowly has its’ say
and I am up at 6 AM, toasting suburbia.
I have no name for what I’ve become
or the pale colors that pool around me…

MADE OF WATER

We are made of water, and from water shall we flow.
Our lungs are full of it, our words are full of it,
our eyes, aching and transfixed, are full.
We would drown the world in denial
before we could take this in;
an ocean of breath is what separates us.

TRANSLATE

A flight of geese—
broken black code
against the grey dawn sky

FOREIGN LANDS

The grit of the boot print
is seen in an unflattering
ultraviolet close-up, slightly
out of focus, a single cusp
zoomed-in on the satellite map.

Who but the prince
could lift the sword?
These stories are already suspect,
like thumb prints around
a throat that’s telling.

Who is the one who can name
names, who sent the princess
past the toll gate? Who can find
the edges of the earth and mark
it finished in the dark?

I guess the answer is,
who ever gets there first…

FRAMED

Bird song at dawn—
a melancholy one-note.
The capillaried tree branches
etch the sky into parcels
of cold white light.
My window frame can’t
contain them.

OPEN PALMS, A PRAYER

Such a tired god who labors
between our pauses.
The ground is wet and green;
tufts of color arise
from the rain’s sacrifice.
When I run my hands through it,
it comes up empty.
The shape holds for a moment,
but it is water, after all--
a sliver, a rivulet
to bind us here.

CRUCIBLE

Arms can lift the air
and the dreams we sleep
are bigger than any one
chalice passed between us,
its’ healing work to fill
in the end of the sentence,
a smile caught unawares.

May you carry the goblet
that provides for the rain.
May your cheap hymn set
the roots to rush the next horizon.
May the barrows turn brittle
when you are thrust upon them.