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?

FIGMENT

I suppose

then and now 

were the same 

moment once—

like strangers 

whose pasts ring 

eerily similar. 

Perhaps this is how 

my description

of your absence 

over time grows 

more precise—

and yet less  

and less familiar. 

RETREAD

All novel thoughts 

contract like vice grips

purpose-built to close. 

The path not taken 

can be just so 

only once—

as soon as we choose it, 

it becomes 

the one we chose. 

Everywhere we 

freely go, the rut of our 

compliance widens,

and, having 

arrived at our 

goals, we will find

we stand both

on the shoulders of giants 

and of roads.

WHAT A CONCEPT

Rather like 

the ether, 

our intention 

is a kind 

of filler material— 

a padding-

out of action, 

a quantum 

mechanical 

patch that fills holes—

made of pure 

surplus; indivisible

but significant 

to the being 

and propagation 

of our own 

satisfaction 

with words 

we deliberately aim

to invoke 

like purpose

and essence 

and soul. 

A MOMENT'S PEACE

Slow 

but inexorable drift 

of castles—

palaces of weightless 

whiteness sailing 

overhead—

each of them bliss-

fully empty 

of occupants—

no rulers, just 

inculpable 

massless structures

stockpiling light 

in splendid tenements 

of glass.