IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING

A Pentecost of pigeons 

perched in rows on 

rolling fence posts 

are spelling out a message 

just for you in 

Morse code. 

It isn't a prediction 

of the storm 

before it happens,

or a forecast 

of how many breaths 

you have left;

it's the eerie invocation 

of the purpose 

of The Random—

of a sharp exhalation 

and a little vague wind, 

in the long run, amounting 

to the very same thing.

This is what passes for 

excoriating doom,

its communique 

telescoping 

over the horizon:

if you feared you'd be 

hounded by fate 

to ruination, the bad news 

is good news—you will 

get there 

on your own. 

DOUBLE OR NOTHING

From the battered ground, 

stark crocus tips poke 

like licked fingers 

raised, in their near-

comic seriousness, 

to test the direction 

of the wind 

and feel around 

(a little dubious) 

for what sincerity 

may exist in this 

latest thaw.

Despite last year's flowering 

coming to nothing 

and the daffodils' trumpets 

falling silent—

then just falling—

they are eager as gamblers  

for their damnable chance

not to bask 

in the moral of the story 

or the Easy Street Kingdom 

of the power and the glory—

not for permanence, or 

to put it all behind them—

but only 

for balance—

only

to begin again. 

ON SECOND THOUGHT,

in this spherical geometry, 

a straight line 

is a lie—

is actually a slight smile 

or sneer; 

it may even 

intersect itself 

after a while. 

For Euclid, 

this was heresy. 

To be emissary 

of the kingdom 

and still be allowed to see it—

that is just

too much. 

It's a beatitude to be 

so near 

to the truth 

and not be allowed 

to touch it. 

*

I'd have to say 

it's rather odd, but, 

during one certain hour of the morning, 

the mind is a vacant lot; 

the few hawks 

that drift high above 

would have to be 

its thoughts. 

The arbitrary relation 

of the sign to the signified—

ominous, 

but not urgent;

eerie, but benign;

lifeless, and so 

deathless—maybe that

was god.

TALKING TO MYSELF

"What is there left

to say?" I mutter;

existence 

is incurrence 

of impression (viz: 

of debt).

*

A bit 

far-fetched, but it 

feels good 

to be called 

as material witness 

to the voiceless obsessed; 

to next spring 

and last winter 

colliding with each other 

and hopscotching birds 

that seem to disappear 

around the corner 

of the Earth; 

to the hide 

and seek 

of rivulets 

which traipse 

through mud 

like hieroglyphs. 

There is always something 

new to read, however 

crude or tenuous. 

No wonder 

this attention can 

never be spent;

this duty to desire 

can never be absented; 

this ache to ask 

questions can never

be addressed. 

THE DEFENSE RESTS

At this point, God 

must be 

absolute-

ly sick of me 

telling him 

all about the sparrows 

and trees.

What did you think 

you were doing? 

he'd say. 

I'd say: it takes a lot 

of faith 

to just describe 

the things you come upon 

in a prosaic 

way when one 

leaf shot-through 

with dawn sun 

is staggering 

enough to 

make you scream—

what is anything?

THE NAME OF THE GAME

We like to think 

affection will make

absence shrink away,

but the consequence 

of tenderness is never 

abolition. Love works 

more like a caretaker—

an animal husband 

to savage distance; 

it does not kill or 

outlaw, just declaws 

our separation; 

for the sake 

of preservation it 

succors the herd—first

it feeds, then trains 

and breeds it. In a word: 

domestication. 

A SUBURBAN CONJURING

From the hedges
on the banks of the muddy
Dunkin’ drive-thru,

the sparrows chanting
“come and get it”

with a hunger
for spring rains, not donut-
combo breakfasts—

for locusts 

and wild honey, in fact; 

not that they 

could ever show it.

but forget about baptism 

by water, or coffee 

in the courtyard 

of the shopping plaza,

and never mind 

the incantations

carved in the cliffs 

of the distant auto mall:

"Good credit, 

bad credit,
no credit?" Hell,

if you were really getting
life right, you
wouldn’t even know it.