SOLACE

In the friendless

foe-less cold 

of January, 

the sun 

does its best setting 

far away. 

From somewhere 

inside us, our own 

spare thoughts 

fly out like dry 

corvid cries 

to meet it—

but of course, it is 

too far, too cold, 

too late. 

After all the things 

its silent touch

has invited—

after all the gaze 

of its eye 

has allowed—

it does not console

or conceal 

or reproach now; 

it doesn't 

have a thing 

to say. 

TESTAMENT

As sure as the mighty 

wind itself 

must be not 

but envious 

of the littlest newborn's

shallowest breath, 

so too, the God

of that child's understanding 

would have to be 

a jealous one—

forever in competition 

(as He 

must have known 

He would be)

with the sky of pale 

papier-mâché He

deigns to display 

each winter morning, 

if not for 

her allegiance, then 

at least for her 

attention. 

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.