Thursday, October 27, 2016


When I was flying, I could taste the air
And hear the wind as I was passing through,
As long as I remembered what to do
While slipping by stars. If I didn't care,
And headed out the door and up the stair
Onto the roof, and if I never flew
Or dreamed, if I forgot to talk to you
And freely fell, the sky would still be there.

So here I am, and here is my delight
At finding out the truth about your heart,
My wings, the doctor's red notes on my chart,
The owl that watched us waste away the night,
And slivers of my dreams, however slight.
This is a dream. It isn't life, it's art.

Sunday, October 09, 2016

Some Brightness

The sun has lost some brightness, on the wane
Since early in the morning, when a cloud
Passed overhead. I smiled; I wasn't cowed
By intimations of incessant pain
And early dusk, or dark, or freezing rain,
Or poets who are bloody but unbowed
(I am the master of reading aloud):
There will be light, through yonder window pane.

I know now, looking from my balcony,
That every flower, every blowing seed
That brings us just one more unwanted weed,
Each patch of yellow moss, and every tree
That wants its fix of chlorophyll can see,
As I do, there's as much light as we need.

Saturday, October 01, 2016

Nocturnal Sweats

There's hooting in the background. Not just owls,
But all the forest dwellers, every kind:
The weird, the bearded, and the misaligned,
The innocent, with unintended howls,
The guilty, with their predatory growls,
Those screwed-up limbless drinkers, ill-designed
(You'll see when staring bleakly from behind),
And flightless wooden-faced untethered fowls.

They're mocking us — well, mainly me, I guess —
The way we sing out, with our open vowels,
Wiping off our fevered brows with towels,
Answering the call of spring, and yes,
Expecting us to back down, and confess
Nocturnal sweats. I feel it in my bowels.