Do I dare ask? Did I
fall asleep on the ferry again?

Am I back where I began
before the night started?

How do I respond
to the other side?

Does a face filled
with anticipation

of finally arriving
look the same as one

harboring

the pain of having to say
good-bye again? Were we

coming or going?
If I ask the quarter moon

that carves out its place
in the backdrop

to another evening,
will I get an answer

I can sip from forever?
Are those rocks

down there? Sunken
ships? A subway train car?

The wedding ring I forgot
to claim, or one made of brass?

If I jump
in, who will hold

my black parka? If I see
purples and greens flash beneath,

is it a reflection
of the sky’s eruption

into the Northern Lights,
or a memory

I cannot erase
with any amount of kneading?

Which island? Who owns

this lighthouse? That bucket
of red and black pebbles?

The pearls of a thousand
oysters buried deep within?

The land? Is this time spent

in the waiting room
more a wading through?

Who was it who said
answers are overrated?

Do you have her number?
What if I were to look

into your eyes and respond:
the color of water.

I dream of swimming
in the sea beside
a band of wild white

horses, and then

I swim my dream
after drowning
(just for a little while).

This life no longer
chronological, they run
through the marshes

of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer,
soon trampling over a blank page
to be filled by another too bright

day into starry night.
The Mediterranean rolls
its waves in a kaleidoscope

of greens & yellows,
blues & whites,
even purples, Van Gogh

would suggest. The horizon
set so high above, fishing boats
must distance themselves

to pierce the line
into the sky. 136 years
since Van Gogh came to paint

his dreams, I find

the sea rising and salt poisoning
the fields. Where will the horses
and fellow flamingos go

when the Rhône delta drowns?
Can we coax it into becoming
a blue carbon sink in time?

When a row of columnar trees
has begun to hum in shades of rust,
and a stray leaf chases you

down. When rain’s chatter gives
way to snow’s silence,
and the whispers you hear

beneath the branches
no longer need to be
ID’d. When you resist

letting nature
take its course,
and the young buck paces

a little too close
without fear in the same spot
for days before disappearing.

We take and take
past the emptying into exposed
views. Circumstances have erased

your face,

and into this strange
climate, when you can finally slip
through the keyhole.

When you realize
it’s Saturday morning, not
Friday, and you give yourself

permission

to fall asleep again.
When you wake
for the second time

to begin (for real) the last
day the sun will set
after 5 pm for months

and that extra hour
is no consolation
for early evening

darkness

that holds your truest
secret contradiction:
how you crave the pitch

far from city lights
in the unfathomable sky
and deep within the deepest

urban tunnel with all its safety-
pinned graffiti you fear most.
And the cold

wind blows through an open
window on the 11th floor
of the Hotel Chelsea

22 years ago. When you confess
you like dark better,
and the sweat of the dance

alone

calls you home.
When you give yourself
permission to forgive

how you were clinging
to the bottom
made of heated liquid

sand. Then you realize
it could not have been civil
twilight the first time we kissed.

No wind that night. Hotter
than it should be. More
smashed pumpkins scatter

beneath the ridge. Why
not say it’s an homage
to the city’s own

devil’s backbone? What

was the dead mouse’s tragic
flaw? Being a teacher’s pet
in the wrong classroom. When

I cut myself on a branch beside
a wooden bench in the woods
to once again expose the color blue

as merely optical illusion.

Trail Rehabilitation
is coming soon
to your neighborhood
park. RATBOY
all up and down
the pedestrian bridge.
I can’t read detour signs
covered in tags. The symbol
for a trail narrowing. Bump. Steps
Not In Use swings
from a chain not in use.
The sky signals it might rain.
Three cars converge
from opposite directions,
let me pass. I become
the sign. Danger Ice
Not Safe left over
from last winter
when the lakes
never completely
froze. SLOW. No problem.
It doesn’t rain.

It ends somewhere
near where a giant gang
of wild turkeys

you have not seen
in weeks startles.
These smallest

deaths—a woolly bear
caterpillar permanently
stopped beneath

the overpass.
You know better
than to touch it.

Nearly finished
by a substantial disturbance
of Nordic bladers

as they pass you by.
Not a cardinal’s trace
interruption as it flies

from one grove
to the next. The greatest
distance ahead in collision

with a nearly empty
trail. Minuscule and alone,
you theorize all the other

runners

must be resting
and carbo-loading
in preparation for tomorrow’s

marathon. Your one
and only time
not so easily lost

in a tangle of other
borough memories
back east. In medias

res, the gentlest breeze
brushes your cheek
and a gigantic gust,

capable of great destruction,
could break free.
It could be the slightest

straw hue in the prairie
grass or blood red
of fully turned fern leaves.

You run your fingers
along the serrated edge
of a season that struggles

to start. And you tally
the tallest freight cars
as the train rattles forth.

It begins
with the tiniest
acorn that has fallen.

All that I gather
in this invisible basket
woven together with strips
of birch and beams
of lower light:

My gently placed shadow
as I move past a baby’s shoe
abandoned on the ground.

Shouts (not barks)
of a dog in the distance
and the shady side of a trail
that leads into the woods—
the one not taken this morning.

Covered with the shush
of my breathing as I approach
the lake. Where is the shallow

end? The shoreline?

Is this one a she? No question
about the sun-smacked, shimmering
surface, or how she (take a chance)
and her sisters became shape
shifters during a stormy summer.

Waves (not handshakes) I collect
from other runners
and the shelter of one of my favorite

tree canopies

above the trail just beyond
the water’s edge. The shine
of a tiny red squirrel and the shock
of seeing a young buck stand still
on freight train tracks

before he slips into the thicket.
The secret power of unfolding
a good-bye and brilliance to come.

Flasks of air
imported from the Arctic

Circle. The sound

behind the sound
being peeled apart.

Geese honk out
of sync as they fly

overhead. Eastward bound,
they know something.

I should know better.
No rabbits, no wild

turkeys to be found. Ambivalent
clouds become less so.

Thunder breaks the moment
into dozens of pieces. No,

I change

my mind. It starts.
I get wet. Rust-hued

leaves with edges outlined
in chartreuse remind me

I’m no wicked
witch before or after

the storm. During, always
ready to throw a flame.

It’s one of those mornings when
I only see chipmunks
scurry across the wooded
Cedar Lake trail—never

with the urban gray (sometimes black,
occasionally white) squirrels
that try to trip me in Loring Park.
One of those mornings

when the sky
schvitzes with me, and
larch trees begin to hint
at the gold ahead. When

tiny soccer players
take over the field, and
a gardener trims the grapevines
without a whisper to reveal

the fruit’s whereabouts.
When I have not seen
any wild turkeys in a week,
and a lone (not lame) duck

swims in the muck.
When the tall grass gleams,
the green between
summer and falls hangs

in suspension. Let me not break.