The Sighting

Cold trapped beneath
redwoods outside
the Henry Miller Memorial

Library doesn’t deter me
from standing against evening grain
to see you straight

ahead performing. I know that sound
of aching beauty won’t last. I only wish
those graceful branches could

suspend
the deep wails
from your blues harp the way

these trees, those mountains, the rocks, that ocean hold

steady. You pack up
your guitars and you’re gone
down Highway One. I don’t see you

drive away, but I know
I can feel the air stir
from notes dropping

around substantial roots.

Because the Roosevelt Island Tramway Was Closed

This bleeding is a reminder—
not all watermarks spring
from water, not all spills
are toxic, not all rain washes

away grit, not all words
make it to the next day. She’ll do her best

to read another message
that might hang in suspension
without slipping
out of place. She could become

in place if she refused
to grimace over outpourings.

This light has no logic.
It heats up tinted
images of you wrapping
around the walls

inside my solar
of make believe. No outside
truth will seep through
to stain your well-defined

face. The moment talked about,
its contracting destination
point, hangs

in suspension. We

don’t get there
from here. And that word
I meant to say, but
didn’t dare, is the only way

to arrive at your timbre. It’s up
there too, with its swinging “y”
tail making an underline
exclamation beneath

its other three
letters. They’re up
there to whip subtle
movements off

their hinges. Big,
bold, block pronouncements
too heavy not to fall
eventually.