TALISMAN

In the freshening air 

of silent twilight—that abyss 

into which all our soiled 

yesterdays blow—

each squirrel 

perched on his pole like 

a sentinel—like the king of all 

the untold animal species;

and each dove, a bust 

of Palace on her throne,

sitting naked and noble 

in her nest of maple branches; 

and me 

at the window, trying 

to let the day go. 

C'est la vie.

Comme ci, comme ça.

Sig transit gloria mundi.

Que sera, sera.

Those are things 

my old proponents 

used to say. But 

to give a thing away, 

that must mean 

you used to own it. 

RECAPITULATION

Fierce first days of April 

always seem to want 

to foment the start of something 

rather rowdier than holy;

from our bone-

dry indoor hiding places, 

even we change-averse conservatives 

cannot keep from staring 

at all of the rioting 

magnolias.

OPENING DAY

How little we understand, 

for how rough 

is the draft

at the end of the month 

of March? It's almost 

simple math: 

you tell April 

what your plan is, 

and she tries not to laugh. 

A silent witness to herself 

with no one else to tell, 

and patient and calm 

as the inside 

of a church bell, 

her grim blades of rain 

extricate spiders 

from their spouts

so the sun that has been hidden 

away in all things all along 

can come out. 

LIFE'S WORK:

Fix this.

RADICALIZED

When I hear, 

up in sun-

sizzled buds 

of vermilion, 

the delirious grackles' 

strident singing—

out of hunger, 

out of lust, 

out of anger 

and mistrust—

about how nothing 

has been known 

that hasn't also once 

been lost, 

I'm reminded 

of an unfound time—

before my avian 

soul was caught, 

dismembered, 

and eaten 

by the fox 

of obedience—

when I knew 

life on Earth 

was a circumference-

less circle; 

every cry was urgent 

at its infinite center—but 

none of them was 

controversial. 

MERCY COUCH

Unclear how, 

but I suppose I need

to thank heaven 

for that first muzzy 

beat of slow tempo 

after waking up—

when I know 

for a fact that I've 

turned up again

but still am not 

sure what 

to worry about. 

POSSIBILITIES

What is it, I wonder,

about each morning's fresh 

mellow tide of hunches

that makes us forget 

about the fallow 

way each day must end?

The way lovestruck 

birds risk blatant overtures 

in still-bare branches

or the frisky wind 

that rolls disenchanted

boxes down alleys everywhere

must serve as narcotic slivers 

to the same hand that doles 

out nightly dread; 

for a fleeting moment, 

last evening's shouts of panic 

melt into golden tender air, 

and the living there is easy 

in the summer 

in our heads.