THE WORK

Well past noon, 

I still sit 

at the writing desk 

waiting for the violence, 

for the language 

to crack.

Words come 

(when they come) 

one by one, 

wet and slack;

as primeval 

subspecies 

from the ocean 

of doubt.

And one by one, 

I wring them out 

and hang them 

on the line of silence. 

But this isn't 

a method 

of making something

so much as 

a way of marking 

time.

STARS

Night after night, 

their mild light 

trickles 

like the ardor 

of a mother for her 

tenderest child—

like drizzle 

from the heights of some 

unfathomable past—

but in spite of this 

fact, and our hours 

in quiet contact, 

 

we still somehow 

wake up to find 

we've grown older. 

HEARSAY AND CONJECTURE

In a coming of age tale 

of the future, I wonder

whose fitful dream 

could have conjured 

this reality? 

So I blunder toward words 

until they rip themselves 

to shreds, 

until my thoughts

climb up trees 

to be crucified 

willingly; 

and I keep my ear pressed 

against the cold ground 

of indifference—

is it the sound 

of rapture 

or repugnance?—

I think: 

any ignorance

this profound 

must be on the brink 

of revelation. 

WINTER SOLSTICE

The way 

gaunt crows prowl 

the desolate 

playground after 

sundown,

as if scavenging 

for a reason to endure 

amid the empty packages 

of HotHands 

and Doritos there—

so tattered 

are the feathers 

at the tail-

end of December;

so unconscionably 

cruel has been 

the season 

of foreclosure.

GROUNDWORK

Because shadows 

when it starts 

getting late 

colonize walls 

and mute their colors; 

because, in warm 

window light pouring 

from coffee shops, 

strangers 

look familiar; 

because old snow 

on pasture contracts 

and grows smoother 

and the foreground

on the interstate

moves faster 

than the landscape—

we suppose 

there must be 

complex rules 

governing even 

the simplest place, 

so, although we 

can scarcely 

keep ourselves awake, 

we'd best stick 

around a while longer

to investigate. 

GASLIT

Distant but familiar 

nursery rhyme of church bells

chiming off the hour somewhere 

past these lonely lanes—

their chiding, inflexible 

machinations 

threaten to cleave 

the present moment 

again and again 

and again—

til I'm willing 

to believe 

that there is treasure 

in the ruthless,

comfort 

in old things,

freedom 

and pleasure 

in the scheme 

of automation. 

THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS

If we had perfect 

understanding, 

wouldn't 

nothing 

seem unjust? 

Wouldn't past events 

and sins acquit us,

and tenacious tendrils 

lose their grip? 

And if so, 

wouldn't the true 

extent of it 

seem suddenly choosy, 

and mean, 

and irrelevant? And, 

without such stiff analysis 

cinching us like dirt, 

wouldn't all

assurance erode 

from beneath us? 

Wouldn't our most 

precious roots 

start to rip?