THE FIRST MYSTERY

Always in the beginning, 

we are told, 

there was something. 

But god 

is not some token 

or utterance 

to be spoken; 

rather, it's a faintly

indescribable feeling.

It's never hitting skip 

on the stars 

as they're wheeling

to get past 

the treacle and on 

to the good part; 

it's perpetually 

forgiving 

all now living 

for their coarse  

and unflattering 

imitation

while constantly 

fighting the screaming

temptation 

to fall madly in love 

with ideas, 

not people; 

it may sit on the tongue 

more palatably 

than sweetness, 

yet somehow 

more absinthian, 

more bitterly than bliss; 

it's saying out loud 

to no one: 

well wonders never cease! 

And: so what 

if there isn't a word 

for this? 

HOW TO MAKE GOD LAUGH

We plan days

like our lives 

are a game 

to be won. 

But strategy 

won't boost our luck—

not even a little.

Ruination 

is a certain 

as the punchline 

to a setup;

it's just

the length of our stay 

of execution, 

and the build-up to 

and the nature of

that devastation 

which beguile us 

like riddles

for just long enough

to keep us 

from asking 

the obvious questions.

ONLYS

What the mystic 

poet implies

is true: 

everything's 

connected. 

Only—

nobody knows how 

or why,

and not in a way 

that would

gratify you.

*

As the sun shifts downward, 

the little light 

that's left 

is the light 

that's most precious. 

Is that 

what is meant 

by clarity? 

Seeing 

that we're not seeing 

(only after we've lost it)

that fleeting 

bit

we're left with? 

*

If pleasure 

is only

the release 

of built-up tension, 

then once in a while,

I'm not too afraid 

to die.

THE PROBLEM OF INDUCTION

The same way 

in which sunbeams 

streaming blithely 

through clouds 

are taken to augur 

some sweetening 

of the future, 

so too 

are children 

taught through sheer 

repetition 

to cry out 

for the bygone 

the way 

the old gods cried 

for nectar.

* 

At the faintest blush

of the winter season, 

the heedless way 

gray geese careen 

overhead 

would seem 

to suggest 

that there's 

no such thing 

as treason. 

And yet, 

far be it from us 

to cite abandonment 

of instinct;

we prefer to dream 

of filaments 

connecting 

one thought 

to the next. So,

things fall apart—

this much is easy 

to accept;

the hard part is 

to repeatedly guess:

in what sequence? 

For what reason? 

ANNIHILATION PHASES

I'm so vein, I probably think 

this next thought 

is about me.

*

Now I'm so present, 

I probably think 

this world is just 

the sum of all 

the facts I have—minus 

my intentions. 

*

Now I'm so numbed 

by the irony 

of presence, 

it's hard 

to locate such 

displaced rage; 

from this distance, 

it's hardly efficacious 

to complain—

it's hardly judicious 

to call them 

my aches. 

FAREWELL SUMMER

In the recently 

neglected garden, 

the bleached-out dregs 

of zinnias sag.

Even the veteran 

pollinators,

who still cling to old dreams

in a few sunny patches, 

though they dimly recall 

fecundity's texture, 

are listless,

uninspired—as if 

no longer defenders

of some lost grand empire 

or its edifying, now all-

but-forgotten flag. 

DERRING-DO

If you're 

reading this, 

you're plummeting

swiftly 

through midair;

each word is

a cloud 

which first sounds 

like a mattress

til you blow 

right through it 

without slowing down.

But the good 

news is

there's a turn

at the end 

which is rushing up

to center itself

under your fall—

not with 

the pillow

of relevant info, 

but the small 

silk-soft 

pleasure 

of knowing 

in an instant 

that a poem

can support you

after all.