Sunday, June 26, 2022

Enduring Pulls

Some nights

mountains turn wicked,

trick me into a fool. 


This trouble goes by

like the cottonwood tree,

shedding its seeds

across a low moon

in the Colorado sky.


I saw it just the other day - 

white dust passing

the mountains, cloistered

in smoke from another state.

They acted well-behaved, 

patient. 

But as the peaks watched me,

a foreigner in their big red world,

they thought:

she would be more free

if she had not grown up in a big city,

without prayer.


 

Walking through the dunes,

a necklace is lost,

becomes detritus in the sand.

The wind, a pickpocket.


I find a stick in the brush,

take it home, like a dog.


Back at the house, I go to the robin’s grave.

His vermillion chest must be faded now,

beneath that brown dirt, cast with that serious light.

Brown feels like forever. All seasons.


Somewhere in the city a little girl wears pink

in a train station with her father.

She sits on a wooden bench, swinging her feet.

The father leans against an iron pillar by the tracks,

lights a cigarette and inhales deeply.

The train comes, the cigarette is thrown.

His silver chain catches white-blue light

as they pass through the open doors.


Somewhere in the city a grown woman bathes,

her body red from the hot water.

She drinks a cold glass of whiskey 

and talks on the phone with a young friend.

The woman’s voice echoes against the white tiles

as she tells the girl about her lovers:

A Swiss watchmaker who brings her flowers, 

boring but kind.

A young bass singer in the church choir 

who likes to kiss in public. He’s very tall.

She hangs up the phone, drains the bath,

prepares to meet a married man.


Somewhere in the city a cedar waxwing migrates.

Dizzy off of those little red berries,

he meets a glass window and is found 

lying beneath it, still.

The drunk waxwing is remembered as 

a reveler of the bird world.


And here, in the country,

I sit in front of the robin’s grave,

a faint cross fingered into the earth.


Lacuna

 

There is a grave we don’t know,

the previous corpses

wild.

For once it is empty, yes

a grave

in some forest, that hole

Sheltered.

Of course

it is night.

True dusk, winter dusk.

Green wood

free, mad.

Other planets,

calm and bare,

unfurl unknown sky.

Like a theater,

we see things.

The same blue

badly made rivers.

you:you

something like love

extreme care

The Earth.


Moon Road (v2)

I dream I am a menorah

set on fire every night.

By dawn, I am extinguished 

by the Moon Road,

a path of water, illumined 

and leading to the horizon.

Silver, like a samovar (for tea, maybe ashes).

Grey, like his tumor.


I hesitate to ask this person 

if he is still dying.


My mom says:

It can take time to die.

But I remember his words:

The future is so soon.


Monday, May 10, 2021

01/01/21

 do any other cities have gum roads? 

Moon Roads exist anywhere with water,

A path snaking to the horizon,

A grey pearl, outstretched.

  Certain friends come and go, i long for them

For the walk home at dawn, a dusted sky, a body


I hesitate to ask this person 

If they are still dying ,


My mom says,

It takes time to die, sometimes


I dream i am a menorah

Set on fire every night


Monday, December 16, 2019

Six

Iced coffee at dinner,
mixed with shochu.
After, we visit
an ojiisan bar
where a woman high on speed,
with Blondie swag,
rests her head of thick
grey hair
on the couch’s arm.
As her eyes close
I think,
I’m happy she’s made it
this far,
and for the first time
see a white braid

falling down my back.

four

I see the same spider
I saw yesterday
on the floor.
I swat her away,
gently changing her course.
She lands on the bed
and I’m reminded,
I often make matters
worse. The bed is my dream,
my own cave, arousing me
like the real caves arouse Cai.
I’m beginning to understand 
how desiring 
myself
makes me desirable 
to others.
Now, when I remember
conversations with girlfriends
about masturbation,
the way they spoke about it
makes sense.
Although it seems

I have to press harder than them.