Bridge of Sighs

Less the noise that drives you mad

and more the silence, the chamber built

where you can hear the pump of your

own blood. Some days you're Samson,

some days the temple. Catastrophize

all you want, but your favorite song 

never lasts long enough, and even if it did, 

you wouldn't like it anymore. Byron mostly 

lied about the Ponte dei sospiri — 

built too late for any victim 

to catch one last look at the beauty.

Inquisitions end and was anyone

ever guilty? It was all petty

crimes. Oh, to sleep as ducks, heads

tucked in the crease of a wing as

rain slides harmlessly away. Lift your

wing and see the apocalypse 

not as an end, but as it is, a bridge: 

the lifting of the veil.

Wicked Problems

The numbers climb higher on TV,

a distant accumulation, a nor'easter, 

a change of heart
medication, the stress, evergreen
arguments. Keep the ornaments
in the attic. Keep your distance, too.

A year of botched responses.
Pandemic panic and more bad news.
Mistletoe without the kiss. 

You can't stop the spread

of misinformation. Hark, 

dumbass: Cover your face. 

Masked things I wanted 

to write. Asked about things I wanted 

to right. Jobless, insufficient presence and

you were a gift, a vaccine, a holiday

of insufficient presents. A house divided 

cannot stand the thought of another holiday 

with or without you. 99% of people survive but

no one trusts no one no more. I love you but

the receipt is in the box. A year of talking through 

screens, The Great Conjunction obscured

by clouds. We missed it.

Every day, every year
is the same. In this play

I'm no Joseph and

you're no Mary.
Our liturgy, ritual anger,
scares away the angels.
Year after year,
The empty manger.