Night Poems

A Maze

/ Arambler / 1 Comment

Once I’ve driven those day
dreams of a dead man
(almost my lover) off the dirt
road, I lay down
on cool stone
to sleep. And dream of you,

a living man
(never my lover). I don’t control
stories that get told
while I sleep. Lyric
never narrative. A complicated card
game I couldn’t play,

I give up and walk down bent
corridors with you
looking back
at me. Is it still there—
that precious
metal band? I can’t see

your left hand.
Into the labyrinth—
a kiss. I wake
to imprint this sweet
consolation prize
on the day.

Temptation Stage

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This is my novelty
act she declares
to the empty chairs
rimming a painted

blue room. Watch me
flash my willpower

through still air. A cigarette,
ashtray, bottle
of vodka, shot
glass, and the number 8

all lined up
on a table
she will not touch.
Now for Act II.

I Wouldn’t Dive into You

/ Arambler / 1 Comment

Or wade
through your holy
waters. Sacred
mud is best
left unstirred
by human feet. Bone
won’t regenerate. So I live
for restabilization
and the myths
of power lost,
forgotten, accidentally
regained that wash
up after late
summer storms.

Make Believes

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The same story
in seven different languages.
She can’t find hers. Where? Could be tucked
deep inside
those accordion folds. But, no,
this could be

his. To pretend

to be mute
at this late date could be
his one last act
before a hunger strike pulls
down the red curtain. Or, no,
that one might be

the one she abandoned
years ago at the roadhouse
now something else altogether.

Pick

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One of thousands left
all over stages and beer
shellacked club floors across
America, I am

the first
to press against

those strings you strung
across his favorite
guitar. Triangular
and blessed chip.

Green Window

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Her urban jungle is ivy
growing over
the southeast
window and an orange
cat looking
out. Birds, squirrels,
gnats, pedestrian souls.

Without Words

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Ready? I couldn’t be
more so. Bronze and
hollowed out. A representation

of a shell to protect
living flesh from otherworldly
showers, I live

in imagination. My darkened
green sleeves peering
through heavy

snow—a figment of a woman’s
realized. Disembodied
lips and an armless mannequin

pillar dance with me
on marble over grass. Who’s
watching? Everyone—and
I am cleansed.

(Inspired by Judith Shea’s sculpture of the same name)

The Thrummed

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I’m the one he made first. Still leaning
against an unpainted wall and unstrung
in his mind. Far

from perfect, my curves are a first try. But
he finished me
well. And I’m a hit

at campfires deep
in eastern New York forests.

Up Here

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A sculpture outside
another restaurant
that didn’t make it

celebrates a robust
dance in bronze. Limbs
will support a partner’s need

to cry beneath clouds.
Will they break

now or tonight
when reminiscing has begun?
Whose weather will make

the better spin? Some cities
may tie.

Natural Climbers

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Straw was a factor
in his fall. No one drowned
in the river
that day. No more bridges

collapsed

that year. Hay is for
the rest of the time
he considers descent.