Poetry

Civil Twilight

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A thirty-minute measure
of time to get it done.
She must pave the road from town center 

to rain puddle is a swimming hole
for her imaginary neighborhood. It’s time
to get it done. Their world, her creation,
is a cul-de-sac 

of beach sand transported
by huge mechanical shovels, not
the wind.  It’s time, before
she can no longer tell the difference 

between the road and ditch,
to get it done.  Why play
out here, her mother has asked,
when the ocean is just up the path 

continuously slowly
hazarding the screened-in front
porch. But her mother just doesn’t get it.
It’s time, here in the back, to get it done. It’s not 

about match box cars with real working door hinges
and tiny treaded tires. Any doll
she owns would be out of scale.
So the people of the neighborhood are invisible, 

but no less in need
of roadways, driveways, articulated floor plans
for their homes.  From where they live, she can’t see
East Chop or West Chop Light. But she can almost hear 

the salt rumble on, miniature bay wave
tucking into itself. What gets trapped
in the air might preserve the village, or
it might rain. She doesn’t take chances—it’s time to get it done
before the bare red bulb lights up the back porch.

Under the Influence of Alcohol and Architecture (Day 2,398: Take 2)*

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She believes she can stand tall against shadow,
affect the light
into afternoon, identify the stone
figure staring at her as she turns a corner 

to enter
another establishment
old as sin. It could be
hers—wrapped into the dirty 

canopy fabric above the narrow door. 

 

* The title comes from the Preface to Luc Sante’s Low Life.

This Time Dublin

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One of those downpours, it falls
hard and fast and is gone
before city gulls reach the south quays. No rainbow.
Wrong time of day. The smallest
of Calatrava’s bridges, a steel white winged bird
poised to take flight
over the Liffey.  And she is 

standing still, at the midway
point, her head bare and bowing forward. Searching
for a lost red scarf, she begins to let go
real tears, the way those embedded glass lights
have been smashed by vandals or too many cars rushing by.

Waterfalls Are Made (or, Olafur Eliasson’s “New York City Waterfalls”)

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As I admire water
falls as art, I lose
my anxious desire
for a chance 

encounter with you. I never forgot you. Mainly scaffolding,
pumps, and piping, physics of the tangible
after inebriation splashes
into the river 

of our souls. I know you
had one. Did you know
too? The East River is not really a river—
it’s a strait. Did we really converge 

in a place where fresh and salt meet?
Did we meet at all? Lost in the mist
of my quiet life, I would not hear,
or see you, if you did approach behind me 

till that empty basin
of a voice was spilling sound
through the air I breathe. 

What do you think of this? 

I would try to ignore what I think
I recognize because a quiet life requires
uninterrupted mesh
with holes to protect whatever might swim 

into the loner’s intake filter pool.  Fish might not penetrate
the fabric, but I can’t resist—I turn. There 

you would be well
into midlife, like me. It wasn’t you,
it was the City I left
to catch my breath for 18 years. 

Woman, is that you? Man, is that you? 

Where we once moved in the dark
toward young urgency striking off
the planes of our bodies, we would now stand still,
stone pillars. The Brooklyn Bridge has sprung a leak, the world 

is turning in
on itself. Wind trumps water, but not gravity. Water sways on its fall
below concrete and steel and wood. And still it’s the water
I bet my life on.

Bath or Shower?

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(virtually overheard poem from www.blogcatalog.com)

 I don’t have time in my life. I live next to scarcity—
what a cold wake-up blast. One of the biggest,
clean bodies 

of water,
and I don’t have a rubber duck.
I am the infamous 

queen of bubbles and essential
oils, conserving my next
5-10 minutes to improve 

circulation. You must be ashamed to love
luxuriating in aversion. The thought
of just sitting there 

in my own filth. Haven’t you thought
about that? All my water
comes from top quality ardor, 

diverted into flowerbeds
and landscaping
by Jacuzzi jets. I can’t stand 

lavender and eucalyptus.
Give me palpitations in the evening

before I sleep. I love soaking,
and I like to be greasy. I mean, 

to tone the skin, make my hair shinier.
Other activities can be enjoyable 

in the tub. Someone stole
my planet, and it really doesn’t matter.

I have a huge, open mouth
that I keep fresh, for an American anyway. But 

baths don’t cover me
like they used to. Turns out, 

I’m the delicate type.
I can only be dry-cleaned,
and that explains everything.

Upper Mississippi Tone (Day 2,426: Take 2)

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On a grayscale
from blizzard to moonless
night, she rates you scattered
clouds and the smiling bright
new 35W Bridge.

How to Find God (or, Recipe for Redemption)

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Drain the doubt, using
a sharp knife, cut it into bite-size pieces.
Place the divided up doubt
in a shallow non-metallic dish. 

Mix together the garlic, bad choices, and sweet
flavored self-destruction
and drizzle over the doubt. Toss
well to coat each piece
and set aside with your prejudices
to marinate at least 20 years. 

Meanwhile, heat the oil of obsession
in a large pre-heated inferno. 

Add the slices of your peeled soul to the pit
and stir-fry over a high
heat until they brown and become
crispy. Remove the sliced soul with a slotted heart-
shaped spoon and drain on absorbent lost love
letters. Add the doubt to the hot oil 

and stir-fry for about 5
breaths. Remove all but 1 tablespoon of the oil
in the world. Add the descent

 into darkness
and stir-fry for 2-3 millennia,
or until it has softened.
Return the doubt and sliced soul
to the inferno and heat to the core,
stirring occasionally. Drizzle with desperation. Transfer
to slightly chipped serving plates and serve 

immediately. If you are in a hurry,
buy ready-marinated doubt
from your local market. Either way, record the recipe
and please pass it on.

Incantation

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Let’s go another day,
awakening toward night
to make the perfect arc
of ourselves diving
into a warm bay. 

A steady stroke,
side by side, above
strong, hands ready
to reach from the dock
to take both of us
before we weaken too much.

Imperfect Beauty

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Flawed, yes,
tragically so—
a quilt harboring one dropped stitch,
a chip embarrassing the Wedgewood china’s finish,
a cloud tarnishing the Algarve sky in July—

so flawed we strive in vain
to convince the trees,
the dune grass and wind working together
to whistle away our fear
of the bay’s seduction of the moon,
to convince every dastardly piece of dirt crumble
we trod upon

that we too are perfect beauty,
that our skin, our bones,
every dip, pucker, relief, and jut
of our faces is designed as such
not just so we will collide into
and detract from ourselves,
but because we fit within it
that is pretty
for its own sake.

But we are wrong,
forever beautifully wrong
because we are naked apes,
an atrocity to the birches,
to the green whips in the sand,
an aberration the moon responding to the bay unforgives
because we hold only the surface beauty
required to continue striving, procreating,
and striving again
against the tide.