Graffiti in the fresh
snow concealing a stone
wall. A window
that opens both ways—
from the top and
from the bottom.
The squirrel electrocuted
by a power line.
The lights that go out
temporarily. A freshly lit
match and a beeswax candle.
The ever so slightly
sweet honey scent
of your sweat
that lingers
after you’ve left the cabin.
I wrote a song
for you
that has no title
I wrote a title
for me
that has no poem
slightly surreal
could be a park after
dark don’t go
inside the theater
has been closed
longer than the lifespan
of most dolphins
or meerkats
ever so slightly
surreal could be a weather condition
like ice
what’s the difference
between freezing
rain and hail
between a swarm
of locusts and helicopters
or bees
rising up
to get their revenge
Your big sister runs
to meet you
the way my big sister ran
down the driveway
to tell me the news
when your father was born.
Some broken chain
link fences
are mended overnight
while we sleep.
Some cynicism
can be cured.
Leo—you are a healer
one day into it.
How many moons—no—
how many movies—no—
how many planetariums—no—wait—
how many drinks
does it take
to adjust to the dark?
Eyes open or shut.
for Sheri
She knows every inch of the dock,
every splinter, barnacle,
hurricane-spared stilt.
It is not a plank. It’s just where she walks.
And she knows how to dive,
has been doing it for years.
No easing shore side into the wash for her,
she plunges in and is used to it
before others wake.
This is underworld—closets, caves, shelves,
trenches, forests, hydromedusa, brittle
stars, Painlevé’s camera. This is where she should live—
she who in her heart is a sponge
is a sponge is a sponge.
To lay out to dry, to become exposed
to air, the rising sun. It is her death
to be before all of you. She will never work a room,
works the ocean floor
for all it’s worth.
Metal crushes metal, emergency sirens approach closer
and closer. A muffled distortion
underwater. Leave her uncontained.
She would rather synchronize her own sculls outside a tank
than be confounded by a mirage of roses
she can’t reach without a body.
The first adaptive
reusers before
it became trendy
to convert a shoe
box into,
well, anything
besides a shoe
box. A covered bridge
into an amphitheater
for Amish punk gigs. A Dairy
Queen into a library
that houses reels
of documentary films
and mysterious microfiche. Summer
mansion into convent into
venue for flying
garters and bouquets.
Do they still do that?
No vacancy
chain. Everyone’s hoteling
it now. Or, hot desking
without reservation.
Anything to protect the soft abdomen
from invaders.
Graffiti grief guardian
angel Atlantic
Ocean Big Sur Book
of Blues love lyric
Martha’s Vineyard memory
poetry recover recovery
recycle reprieve roots
saudade silence sky-
way soul take
no heroes hotel the Bronx
train truth
urban weather
Seeps into the foundation. Inks
its way through sand, clay, silt, even
into a blessed sinkhole.
The color of a Redbird before
it became a reef
off the Slaughter
Beach coast. The need for sacrifice
grows so great. Infestation
an epidemic. All those heroes
on the loose, out of control.
No more illusions of steering
this dinghy ashore in the storm.
It’s going to rock; I’m going to remain
the name on its port side. It won’t fade away.
A skyway morning
to you. Did you
invent it?
Not the skyway,
not the morning,
the night.
A silk green cigar
smoking jacket, striped
trousers cut off
below the knees, wind
chill kind of evening.
I would ask
your mother what time
of day you arrived
if I met her.
They have the same
name. Our mothers.
Remember that part.
