To blame a rodent
for this disruption, this return
to the primitive,
is what I do
when singed mystery
holds no appeal. What about a snake
or hawk? Could be human
error—and into its portal
the soul just might come into view.
If only I didn’t blink it away.
A transformer explodes, a squirrel
dies, civil twilight crashes
into darkness faster than my fingers
can touch the right digits
for relief. To open this book
of scents written by a left
hand to a stranger is exposure
I might not survive. To hide
the ink stains of impressionistic
thought is to remain in a corner
that might not be found
by a flashlight search and repair.
The left hand competes
with the right
to give you the definitive
signal. Time out. No longer
a snorer. The quieter the room,
the greater the tension
of finger mirroring finger,
thumbs pressed to white.
A violent thought drives
him to grab
the nearest railing
so he won’t spill
himself onto the deck.
The calm water
is a song
he wrote before he knew
how to speak
to women with mouths
like hers. White knuckles
and wet wrists, he remembers
now. Oh, that’s right.
To float is not
always the goal.
Some air bubbles
burst for no reason.
On those nights, I let go
of my need to follow the moon.
I rearrange the furniture
in my head
to clear a path
to that alcove
of possibility. Poetry is
wayfinding
written in Braille
with lemon rind
and a candle burning
at each station.
Everyone has reservations.
A porch no one
can describe wraps
around its house—tightening,
tightening. Hugs
the footprint as a disciple
of home is
where you check in
without a check-out time. Tin
tile ceilings in the two-story
lobby. A triangle
park and a bluff
anchor all activity
in the oceanfront garden. Bonfire
night after night where effigies
of the over-worshipped burn.
What washes ashore below
erases questions and desire
for answers. I could drag
my dinghy across the sand
and know it’s time.
This solstice is
a cul-de-sac.
I don’t mind losing
my way—no longer ten
miles north of Boston
wondering how houses
and whole streets
can disappear. It only gets lighter
from here, and there’s always
a way out
at that least
likely radius.
A skyway floor
tiled in original Lego
red and gray.
Another covered
in carpet patched
together with black
duct tape—I make my connections
above vehicular fray
seamlessly. New patterns
will arise if we can bounce
off the darkness
into true winter
without misfiring.
A real concert
harpist plays beneath
a giant atrium
sculpture with strings
attached. I’ve lived
all these years
with a mannequin—
not a marionette. I have
a cousin who mistakes live
women for the ones without
strings. Someone’s father
worked in a plastics factory
where they manufacture
the ones frozen
in poses. I can’t
draw one—but I could place
a cutout replica
in a jar and wait
to be surprised.
