INSURGENCY

There is something 

to be gained from

observing the way 

light's recalcitrance 

accumulates 

on a late November day—

when heavy gold rays

strike the trees' 

meager branches 

and seem, 

for the first time 

all year, to outspan them.

And though, as they

must do, they pass

right through,

for a moment, 

they seem to want 

to stiffen and hang,

like jewels 

on a pendant, for a week 

of afternoons—it's as if 

the light knew 

any better than you 

or I do 

how to own more 

than a moment 

in this world, 

how to thwart time, 

how to own it,

how to stay. 

RECURSION

What is it like 

to partake 

in the next life? 

What would it take 

to be—and stay 

at peace?

Experiment: stand alone 

at dusk, 

trying sincerely 

to picture the deceased 

as agile, pliant; 

as distant and laughing; 

as slapping 

at the silver 

waters—privately, 

but all 

together—shining 

in an endless sea.

*

Everything still 

reminds us 

of them—

especially the way 

they still remind us 

of all the things

they never can be.

CATCH

The truth can't be 

refused by the lowest-

lying waterhshed: 

now plus acceleration 

due to gravity

equals then;

in dribs and drabs, here 

must diffuse 

into there. 

If only 

a washbasin 

could be invented 

to collect the bygone 

present which 

condenses from thin air—

to preserve the raw 

and the too-

haunted things, 

and forestall them awhile 

from that freefall 

into yet—

a vessel to protect 

the still-

pure and unadulterated, 

to hold 

the only thing 

we can know

and prohibit 

even the littlest 

spill. 

DON'T OVERTHINK THIS ONE

The goal of all thought 

is to redirect

itself; 

to reach a grand end—

and then

to start over. 

In that sense, reflection 

is a threat 

to survival; 

careful second guessing, 

a burial plot. 

A retrospective lesson

reads a lot

like a tombstone—

a tombstone which, 

to instinct, also 

doubles as a roadblock,

bringing wild movement 

to a screeching halt. 

CHRISTMAS COMES EARLY

V of gray geese

plows the air 

of necessity,

trawling invisibly 

the last temperate clouds—

scours dull belief 

in the promise 

of winter

intoned in a far-off

untroublesome melody—

clears a fleet path 

for that 

heavenly peace 

in which, perchance, 

to sleep.

MATURITY

As flocks 

of pigeons 

sweep low 

above fountains 

in tacit sync—

then break—

then repeat;

as the once-

august leaves 

now stuff gutters 

and steep 

leftover water 

into strange,

reddish tea—

so too may

equanimity 

advance 

and retreat, 

taking no more 

or less pleasure 

in either 

than the craving 

for stability 

used to take   

in each. 

NIGHTMARE

Everything out there 

being patently 

what it is: 

two 

succeeding one, old age 

displacing youth—

no hiroglyphs 

to illustrate the march 

of our days, 

no metaphors 

to explicate as proof—

and definitely 

no lessons to tease 

from eternity's 

hashed miscellany; 

our tongues 

fuzzing over, 

turning gray-green

from atrophy—

by which you'd think

I might really mean 

apathy—but no, 

I don't, 

sadly.