Water
pressure becomes
the source of happiness
as a broken pipe turns streets to
rivers.
Accidental Home
To calculate the life
expectancy of a book
case, to remember terracotta
dreams, to believe
in old-fashioned raindrops,
to imagine pianos
appearing on parade
in other cities, to be
proud not to have gotten
a tattoo in this town
after all
is to be making it
up as I go along.
New Day One
The back alley becomes
a graveyard
for worn couches.
Nine degrees
doesn’t feel too bad
if I stay away
from bridges and river
banks. Icicles formed
unnaturally still remain
on bare tree branches
in the yard
where firefighters fought
and lost
a year-end battle. A raging one,
it took down
a 100-year-old multiplex
home with pillars.
How can I leave you behind
in a year so scorched?
Give me a sign
that your spirit has made it
through wind chill to now.
Ode to 2012
More than ready to close
the book
on this year. New cases bought
and assembled. Shelves and volumes
remembered, dusted, rearranged. A new order—but
too much left
unsaid. A beautiful birth, a transformative
death, I stand
somewhere between
living my life.
2012 in Review
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 2,600 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 4 years to get that many views.
Beware Neglected Candles (or, Another Year)
A weatherman’s heart,
a three-alarm
fire two miles south, the furnace
kicks in, a hiss
that warms, cause
unknown, to kick it
just for today,
let the cat out
the back door, safety
from what you think
you want, draws
to a close.
Four Months
The dullness
of this count does not mirror
the flash
of metal that cuts longing
into irregular slices
of grief.
No steady hand
can regulate how
it gets measured, how
another day will fold
open with his absence
now ink
that has set into the fibers—
bleeds and all.
Five-Seeded Still Life
Even if she did eat
pears, it wouldn’t have mattered.
He still would have expected
love too soon. Would still be drinking
too much
red wine strangely chilled
to notice how
she devours green apples.
Both Travel as Waves
The last word
appears suddenly, strikes
like lightning
without any thunder
no matter
how long I count.
One Hundred Days, or Memento Mori VIII
Why count the piled-up
hours of grief? As I get closer
to our number 8—
another day
in the last month
of a depleted year—
I realize even tipped
on its side,
its resemblance
to infinity
is a mirage. Even 8
is not immortal.
