silence does not lie
the way words
on the page or screen
may lie

a little more
each reading
each day

truth comes
after you drop
the phone
into that snowbank

Arrive on the coattails
of a stranger.
Leave on the wings
of a crane.
Be the thermal
that gives the greatest
lift. Disappear into the folds
of the wind’s
invisible cloak. Be
the voice heard,
not seen.

Today, I will be
a groundhog, tomorrow
a gray wolf. Another day,
my fingers will wrap
around the cup
that contains all
the saltwater anyone living
or dead can remember.
On that day, I will forget
to fear the church bells
that ring across the snow-covered
lake in this city park.

She stares at the same ugly
diptych on the wall
day after day
without pausing
to contemplate how crookedly
the panels are hung.

Because it’s a new year,
today she does.

Twin heads
of a smoke-breathing
man with third eye
and goatee. One with
black hair, the other white.
Noise in the background

on both sides, the chins
don’t align.

Then a plastic pint
of whiskey falls
from a man’s pocket.
He doesn’t notice
till two women call out:

“You dropped something.”

Because it’s a new year,
the cafe’s quiet before noon.

Night & Day Poems 2015 Annual Report

See a man
who played in a band
with a man
I used to know
inside a CB2
the day before Christmas.

He smells of smoke
and bourbon.
Old friends of mine
turn out
not to be
friends at all.

Not gonna
friend them
on Facebook.
Not gonna
follow them
on Twitter.

Not gonna
romanticize a few
magical nights
followed by years
of self-destruction
and bad poetry anymore.

We’ve all walked
out the door, escaped
up or down
the block.

So the snow
finally begins to fall.

This life
offers no refunds.
Security deposits
and warranties meaningless.
You can return it,
but no replacement
will land on your doorstep.

This life
gets darker and darker
till a day in December arrives
when invisible fingers
gently press the button,
prepare to slowly turn
the rotary dimmer switch clockwise.

And a brighter
recycling begins.

From a train window, she watches
tombstones march by in the dark.
It comes so early these days.

Life can be so long.
In a superstitious land,
each word becomes a curse.

She makes herself very small
in her seat as a gang
of teenage boys invades the car.

They pummel each other
with fists and chests
up and down the aisle

just for fun. Or, just to prove
their vitality is their virility
to the rest of us.

She’s seen full-grown men
perform the chicken dance
with their jeans dropped to their ankles

to get her attention.
They didn’t need to bother.

Her focus on one of them
couldn’t be broken for years.

She’s got her eye on
figures who parade by after dark.

these prayers
made of pine
needles
typewriter
ribbon horror
film epilogues
flat ginger
ale blank
mass cards
a mess of
whispers
tucked inside
a stack of
questions

these prayers
made and furled
these prayers
answered and weighed
these prayers