TOTEM

To the woodpecker—

little desperate-

ly industrious sap sucker, 

pilfering what 

deaf torpid 

insects you can 

and extracting, 

while you're at it,

whatever little bits 

of calcified sweetness 

this maple may

have scrimped 

and stowed away 

in the marrow of its 

snow covered limbs: 

what advice do you proffer 

for the winter ahead? 

With your dots 

and mad dashes, 

what Morse code 

message do you send

to the feather-

poor soul which is 

mired down below? 

Grim or perseverant—

which posture 

toward the end 

do you portend for all 

the living and their 

tokens of the dead? 

D-LIST

Most of us wish  

to be famous 

for our looks,

but the fact is 

a beautiful face 

is half-distinctive, 

half-ambiguous. 

Not incisive; 

not disgusting—

like a sudden 

vague pang 

of recognition 

through the rain. 

What we want 

more than fortune

and way more 

than fame 

is the subtle power 

to trigger nostalgia; 

to make another 

tingle with suspicion 

and that lust 

for just in case;

not to be seen, 

but to have been 

seen somewhere before;

not to be named, 

but at last

to be placed.  

HARMONY I

My hurts 

are not your hurts—

but I’ve heard they might 

vibrate 

sympathetically; 

and that, at least 

to me, is music. 

HOW MANY ANGELS CAN DANCE ON THE HEAD OF A PIN?

It seems God 

is omnipotent 

like the novelist is: 

from Adam and Eve 

to Japheth, Shem, and Ham, 

many of his 

best characters 

just "got away" from him.

*

Religious conviction 

is math 

without numbers,

gravity 

that doesn't attract;

it's all the little things 

without their preponderance—

as if 

the breadth 

of the next world 

could outstrip 

this one's 

impermanence.  

*

The number of galaxies 

is now thought 

to be so numerous 

as to border on 

the commomplace

and conjure up 

the frivolous;

points of light 

so ubiquitous, 

they're used 

to end independent 

clauses.

The grains of sand 

in Saturn's rings 

and the surplus of it 

which fringes our beaches 

number infinitely more 

than all the humans 

who have ever lived, 

but still less 

than all the words 

we collect 

to fill in the smallest

awkward pauses. 

THE HARD PROBLEM

We like to think 

of our thoughts 

as cosmic objects:

true, most of them 

are space junk—orphan 

asteroids and comets 

with tails made of dust 

debris, and ice chunks—

but a few bright ideas 

really capture our attention, 

and we call these 

main attractions 

stalwart stars 

and pilgrim planets. 

But we mustn't forget 

that, from masters thesis 

to default-mode chatter, 

all of these are really

just disturbances

of matter 

in the vast and untearable 

space-time known as 

consciousness, 

bending it and warping it 

to their own 

obtuse purposes, 

but nonetheless always 

so hopelessly embedded—

so enmeshed in the limitless, 

and purposeless fabric 

which is alternately

known as "what it's like" 

and "how it is." 

FROZEN ASSETS

Rife with 

the numb white of ice 

though it is, 

the grizzled old 

December wind 

can't quite 

erase these last 

riots of leaf color—

such fortunes 

of mock-gold 

and ember-red treasures 

as my forebearers 

greedily burned 

down the world for 

now cached (as if 

under glass) 

on the stiff

ice-shagged branches, 

soon 

to disintegrate, yet 

transcending all transaction—

an unprofitable sight

with the year 

almost done

which is 

current to all

and currency 

to no one. 

CODEPENDENTS

You know 

this body 

will betray you 

like Judas—

if, that is, 

your continued use 

does not undermine

and undo it first.

It's less 

a game of chicken 

than a suicide 

mission, which 

neither of you 

can hope to win—

and yet, 

neither can cope 

with the other's 

refusing.