WILL THIS BE ON THE TEST?

Electrons, 

which may or may not 

be said to exist 

(depending on the context), 

nonetheless will jumpskip 

from orbit to orbit 

spooking the nucleus 

and shooting off energy 

which we feel 

in the audience 

as we witness 

the experiment 

as—

dread, 

purpose,

or suspense?

* 

Given that 

wherever there is growth 

there is always a scar 

at the center, 

is the inverse 

also correct? 

Can you hijack a metaphor 

and run it in reverse? 

What color bird 

or 

what species 

of flower 

could stand 

for the opposite 

of power? 

*

With quick lines, I gesture 

toward 

narrative thrust 

with vigor and 

plausible 

nonchalance—even though, 

like you, I am 

just passing through.

Incongruously authentic, 

retroactively secure, 

I am the flesh 

made word; 

designer 

of the game. 

Pleased to meet you.

Guess my name.

FALL POEM

There are afternoons 

when late October 

feels like it might stay forever;

when sunlight itself 

is enchanted by 

the unplumbed color of the season 

and seems 

to want to hang from trees 

like crystal chandeliers, 

stretched and slowed 

by the fairy tale 

of coming cold 

til it lingers 

a little too long 

in midair—

like Cinderella did 

in the opulent glare 

of such an otherworldly ball—

with no ride home 

planned, and 

for no reason at all. 

WELL, ACTUALLY

What is it that provokes 

any clean 

quiet morning 

in all its perspicacious 

stillness 

to ripple 

and dither into 

just another day? 

Is energy 

just coiled matter 

which has not yet 

unfurled itself 

and deigned to appear? 

As I ask, I notice I'm not even 

looking for the answer, 

because if there's 

one thing I know, it's that 

by the time I'm done inquiring, 

every word 

is abandoned 

like a seashell 

on eternity's shore—

everything we know 

is gradually 

something else entirely, 

without any 

reference to lesser 

or more. 

REVELATION

Apocalypse 

doesn't come 

all at once—

there are packets. 

This is not 

despondence 

any more than 

it is fact. 

For truth 

is but a parasite 

on is-ness, 

says the prophet;

a virus 

which preys 

upon life's need 

for correspondence. 

PRIME MOVER

Each morning, 

I wonder 

where does it come from—

the intangible breeze 

that whispers in 

each morning 

to dissolve with its 

cool kiss the last 

of my dream logic 

and flirt 

just a bit with 

my diffident curtains? 

The uneven 

surface heating

due to elevation

which leads to 

pressure differentials 

on the far side of the planet.

But no, say my 

cold toes, that can't 

be the answer, can it? 

It's far too impersonal 

to have clambered 

through my window—and, 

to be the provocation 

that I need, 

far too certain. 

RANSOMWARE

Caucused 

atop the gray 

cornices at dawn, 

the silhouettes 

of crows 

argue with conviction 

the politics 

of lonesome 

as a trait 

or an affliction. 

* 

For my purposes,

down 

at the simulation's 

street view

(not to mention 

yours 

one level lower 

as a reader), 

it doesn't matter 

if this image 

is truth 

or fiction. 

*

Incepted in 

the latest version—

a stealth software update, 

a poetic snatch 

of code inserted—

you are programmed 

to imagine

 

that things 

could be worse:

these scavenger birds 

could yet be 

upgraded—

persuaded 

to peck stars 

from the skies 

of your thoughts 

like they were the all-

seeing eyes 

of the universe. 

WHITE FLAGS

Desperately petaled, 

these stalwart 

fall roses, 

worn and besotted 

as the clabbered 

lumps of cloud 

which now blot 

and bleach the sky 

on an undulating basis,

soon will have 

no prouder choice 

than to laugh 

as they—and my 

conflation of security 

with stasis—

crumple in the direction 

of momentum 

and collapse.