dew point

on the bus i am blessed with her
beside me, our eyes carried
through this city on black wheels, white
trim, green and red lights winking
us forward as she frees the shoes from her feet,
takes her makeup bag out and,
with the rhythm of the road,
applies another face, grinning
as i watch, grinning.

the summer sun crawls skyward
and touches vapor trails
'til they blush the color
of her thin, pink lips
bent into a mile-wide smile

so far above me, water
from wings, spreading
and soon to disperse.

  

The Cynic

The impression left
on my pillow and the long,
dark hair remaining.

The shower hissing,
listening to her movements
from the other room.

She doesn't belong
here, certainly not to me,
happy, poor city

dog, yapping at scraps
out of reach, her powerful hands.
Wide eyes bent up, agog,

I fawn on those who
give me anything, I yelp
at those who refuse,

and I set my teeth
into those who come too near.
Supine mutt, ears perked:

the din of the rain?
Or is it the shower, still?
I'd been on a scent

so long, lost it, then
followed something exotic,
new, fleeting and fair.

To think I would have
lost it in the storm again,
but for one dark hair.

.

setting

spring, a mourning dove
cooing, wooing with the sun
still up, still gilding the backyard
of my grandparent's home in gold.

fifty-eight years married to
the same walls, the same roof,
that small square of garden
freshly tilled.

standing in the middle
of the yard drinking a beer
alone, eyes closed and i can feel
the old sail boat behind the garage,
can sense the chipped blue paint on its hull,
the flat tires of its trailer,
the patch of earth where we buried
my first dog, where the grass never
came back.

the wind rustles a sheet hung out
on the clothesline, then whips the fabric
suddenly. i open my eyes, tense
until i hear the voices in the house
behind me.

a turn to go back, a pause,
the dove again, the boat,
the sun pushing against the wind
and everything precious, gold
in the light and the cold
night coming, the cold
night breathing, old
night smiling, cold,
cold, i can't stop.

 

Fortitude

For Ami

With her hands
She stills
The jaws of the lion.

Natural Selection

At every idle moment,
With a finger and a thumb,
I comminute the somnolent,
And I pulverize the dumb.

 

forty-eight days under the bodhi

pleaseforget
me.pleasefor
givemeplease
formeplease.

 

appulse

and the lady? i've missed her
through these asphalt fingers
slow spreading & covering sun dials
shade, chiller-than-thou, maudlin
enunciation of thoughts distilled
and stilled & stirred & always
her, the remainder. detour sign,
follow it a while. forgot where
i was headed, spun a coin on the bar.
heads up, tuck my tail & cringe,
order another; there's a hole in my
glass. heart full of fiery fears
with my hand raised to the lights
from the dance floor slow twirl,
alone & fashionably drunk, a new
year, a new bus route, a new drink
& i now know that i am the wet moon,
the spilling bowl.

all my friends are in the wind
& even the blue moon is hiding not
because she's shy or afraid, but
because she can. because she
loves the space & the power to pull
the clouds about her like a blanket.
at this altitude i can almost touch
them, like reaching up to stroke the
gray down of birds & i know she's on
the other side, rara avis, warm, glowing
& maybe blushing.

oh, one day i'll empty. one day
i'll dry. one day my smile will
light up that whole damn sky.