XMAS VACATION

Looking out at last, 

an esoteric sight made simple

unties some Gordian 

knot in the heart: 

the distant rumpled

office buildings 

hang there lighter 

in the wind-dimpled air, 

looking more frail 

in weak afternoon light 

and empty now 

of all who might 

have illumined the lamps 

that would yellow their windows. 

Rarely does such a singular quiet 

chime with such curious harmony;

and only once 

or twice a year, maybe, 

does such solitude and emptiness 

invite anticipation 

and foster in us this 

benign repose. 

HOSTAGE

If you're reading this, 

it's already too late; 

you are helpless 

as a goddamned lamb;

You've been forced 

to guess forensics 

from these negatives 

of experience. 

Meaning reigns  

like rain rains—

you must 

try to understand. 

NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION

To try again 

at wanting 

to be honest, 

to be common. 

To learn from the young 

to be blithe 

but look sullen. 

To break it 

into pieces 

too profuse 

to be included. 

To quit trying 

to fix it, 

accept it, 

or reject it—but 

just to learn 

from my cruelty 

and rudeness 

how best 

to be human.

EASY COME EASY GO

Most would agree 

that survival 

is transactional—

that every private

joke and vision,

no matter how 

expensive, hard won, 

or implausible,

in some sense

is cheap, since it's both 

extant and available. 

But that still doesn't mean 

we can afford 

what we need,

or that we won't get killed 

on the cost 

of the upkeep. 

Just ask these meningitic 

December trees 

(although they probably 

don't need to tell you) 

how—precious or ubiquitous, 

pragmatic or unnecessary—

there came no warranties 

on their latterly defective 

umbrellas of leaves. 

ARS ARTIS

Credit 

where credit 

is due: 

to the Long Run—

when words, 

though they 

aren't yours,

will still come 

unbidden. Under 

the old sun, 

nothing 

is new—but 

rearranging its

small bits 

is still called 

a breakthrough. 

THE POEM I DELETED BEFORE I WROTE THIS ONE

was curved 

like the intricate

folds of a rose petal;

each line—frail 

and furtive and perfumed 

with allusion—

would bend back 

on the last in soft 

laps of recursion  

to cradle 

at its absent center

such untarnished answers 

to all of my 

most pressing 

metaphysical questions 

that each seemed 

to gleam like a galaxy

of water, 

spiraled-out 

and kissing its neighbor 

in the interstellar void. 

And yet, 

despite the untold wonders 

of insight it contained, 

I feel better 

just for knowing 

I am willing to destroy

and satisfied 

that I have passed a test 

I often flounder at:

that of applying 

the courage required 

to extinguish information 

whether or not 

I am sure of its value—

and whether 

it's equal to 

or greater than the hubris 

of creation. 

LOGOS

Under the cover 

of another darkly 

dawning day in December, 

I can just make out 

the distant shapes 

of dozens of hectoring 

arboreal animals—

but despite the barren 

blankness which 

surrounds them, 

their incessant clamor 

in the snarl of branches 

is clear and bright 

and new and urgent.

At the end of the year, 

they sing to one other,

not of the new 

world to come 

hereafter, but, 

over and over, 

of all that came before—

distilled 

to a fusillade of one 

repeating word. 

Being a poor excuse 

for bird, I myself 

am not sure, 

but I think that word 

must be immemorial: 

that which must not  

be forgotten, 

but cannot be 

remembered, either.