Overnight Poems

Prelude to a Season and

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Your cold retreat just days
before becoming
officially on 

is a cruel dance
on last night’s sighs
into a buoyant civil 

dusk. You turn
me on only to turn
your back to my naked 

fantasies of an us—two
turtles on a broken branch
over the rising river. 

It crests in the valley
at the convergence 

of the small into
the mighty. Floods 

a grain terminal
in new repurpose, drowns
an island for now, distracts 

me from your absence.
This pulled-up leather
collar collides 

with that last image
I’ve been working
into you.

The Line

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Turns out musicians
are mortals—shouldn’t be
a surprise. All those young
martyrs. But still it is. 

You’re the latest
demonstrator.
You left behind
one of the best. And because 

I, too, am
mortal and
a thief, I can’t resist: 

“I can’t get a license
to drive in my car. But
I don’t really need it,
if I’m a big star.” 

Step outside
the city
on a clear night. 

Note:  Stolen lyric from “O My Soul,” by Alex Chilton, from the album Radio City.

Before the Cruel One

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Who waits
for the river
to rise rises 

above reds
to reach clay
tinted sky. Who 

runs from dry
spells into March
gusts and shifted 

light shifts
with each new
calibration.  

This window
then that becomes

highlights for whomever
remains.

Graffiti Blues

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Dark lipstick stains
on the rim 

of a coffee mug, a juice
glass, cigarette 

filter, napkin, so far
from the neighborhood 

of your lips—they can’t be tagged.

Duplicate Triplicate

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Equivocation—poetry
in strong,
skilled hands, mud
in most. Who am I 

to seek twins
standing up to one another
in this historic park?

Who do you think 

you are to judge
my choice of wrapping
through another stretch
of drizzle? Who 

do you think I am
when you gaze this way
that way? Who 

do I think you are
when I forget 

what I might say
to you under its grip?
I’m thinking 

fraternal ones
and three grown
sisters, one
weirder than the next.

Tags Along

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Methodist metronome
middle age middle C
mill Minneapolis
Minnesota Minnesota 

River minor
deity Mississippi 

headwaters Mississippi
river monk
monosyllables moon
moon cup moonless mosaic 

tile mother
moths motion mount 

mountain mountains
mouth muddy water
multimodal murmur
trestle muse muses 

nagahyde naked
apes New England New 

Haven New Jersey New
Jersey Shore New
Jersey Transit New
Orleans new soul new 

wine New York New York City New
York fire truck New
York subway Newark
Airport newborn 

Nick Drake 

Nicollet Mall Farmer’s
Market night night
club North Atlantic North
Clark Street northern 

Minnesota nostalgia
nudes nymphs 

obsession.

Dog Ear

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I am a page torn
but not easily removed
from the journal
you didn’t keep. I’m 

a face in the crowd
you can’t look at
but recognize
with your eyes closed. I’m 

the book you bought, thought
you’d devour, never read. 

I’m the last word
you wish to utter.
I’m that regret.

Weathering Rock

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To fall down
the rabbit hole 

of regret is
to roll in Georgia red
clay mud without 

remembering
it was once dirt.
It will be 

again. To sidestep
and walk quickly by
is to begin to accept 

rain without pretending
you can predict the depth 

of its source.

Long Player

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Cover the Murmur
railroad trestle in snow, it is still

going to be there. Look up
my sleeves—nothing

hidden but a dusting
of time on my forearm,

a ring of vinyl never played
around my wrist. That I like the old

photographs printed and mounted
over song is a symptom

not the disease, and one
of the best ones I’ve got.

in medias res redux

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Don’t cut your hair, pull a cap
over the lengthening. Invoke
one ghost and two 

other legends still kicking
around what haunts them
at night when stairs are steep, 

a cellar two stories deep. Narrative
or none, consistent not
likely, they do what they want. I 

see you do too and so much younger. You
may catch up to the age 

of your soul, but not yet.