THE POEM I DELETED BEFORE I WROTE THIS ONE

was curved 

like the intricate

folds of a rose petal;

each line—frail 

and furtive and perfumed 

with allusion—

would bend back 

on the last in soft 

laps of recursion  

to cradle 

at its absent center

such untarnished answers 

to all of my 

most pressing 

metaphysical questions 

that each seemed 

to gleam like a galaxy

of water, 

spiraled-out 

and kissing its neighbor 

in the interstellar void. 

And yet, 

despite the untold wonders 

of insight it contained, 

I feel better 

just for knowing 

I am willing to destroy

and satisfied 

that I have passed a test 

I often flounder at:

that of applying 

the courage required 

to extinguish information 

whether or not 

I am sure of its value—

and whether 

it's equal to 

or greater than the hubris 

of creation. 

LOGOS

Under the cover 

of another darkly 

dawning day in December, 

I can just make out 

the distant shapes 

of dozens of hectoring 

arboreal animals—

but despite the barren 

blankness which 

surrounds them, 

their incessant clamor 

in the snarl of branches 

is clear and bright 

and new and urgent.

At the end of the year, 

they sing to one other,

not of the new 

world to come 

hereafter, but, 

over and over, 

of all that came before—

distilled 

to a fusillade of one 

repeating word. 

Being a poor excuse 

for bird, I myself 

am not sure, 

but I think that word 

must be immemorial: 

that which must not  

be forgotten, 

but cannot be 

remembered, either.

WINTER BREAK

Windsound 

of untold 

ice-tongued bells; 

pleasurably 

sharp snick 

of salt 

beneath boot soles—

I am not going 

to work today; 

I am not 

sure what 

else to say. 

*

Time's arrow, so much 

like your sun-

illumined shadow, 

no matter where

or how you roam, is always 

pointed elsewhere. 

Infinity 

is the feeling you get

that you might, 

like a beam of star-

light, strain the borders 

of forever; 

while eternity 

is the way the thieving 

darkness seems to cling—

that sinking feeling 

of seeing 

past the universe 

but always, interminably 

of being 

right there. 

DAILY DRIVER

If death is a hotshot 

sadomasochistic stunt pilot, 

desperation is 

the unassuming, 

ruthlessly efficient 

chauffeur of my life—

impeccably liveried, 

morning, noon, and night

and willing to work 

for the pittance

of experience—

I'm so pleased

to watch it weave 

around the traffic 

of my common sense, 

bypassing 

all self-respect

to get me 

to the tomb 

on time. 

TOTEM

To the woodpecker—

little desperate-

ly industrious sap sucker, 

pilfering what 

deaf torpid 

insects you can 

and extracting, 

while you're at it,

whatever little bits 

of calcified sweetness 

this maple may

have scrimped 

and stowed away 

in the marrow of its 

snow covered limbs: 

what advice do you proffer 

for the winter ahead? 

With your dots 

and mad dashes, 

what Morse code 

message do you send

to the feather-

poor soul which is 

mired down below? 

Grim or perseverant—

which posture 

toward the end 

do you portend for all 

the living and their 

tokens of the dead? 

D-LIST

Most of us wish  

to be famous 

for our looks,

but the fact is 

a beautiful face 

is half-distinctive, 

half-ambiguous. 

Not incisive; 

not disgusting—

like a sudden 

vague pang 

of recognition 

through the rain. 

What we want 

more than fortune

and way more 

than fame 

is the subtle power 

to trigger nostalgia; 

to make another 

tingle with suspicion 

and that lust 

for just in case;

not to be seen, 

but to have been 

seen somewhere before;

not to be named, 

but at last

to be placed.