Urgent Nothing

There was nothing to do
and I felt it urgently:
each unused minute
slipping past as if unlived.
There was the dream,
which felt more real than real--
the premonition, and then
fulfillment, in another scene:
it colored the whole day,
set everyone on edge.
It is a wastrel feeling
to have a row of hours
stretching forth, like farm lanes
empty but for the memories,
trees in even intervals, set upon
a grassy hill beside dirt roads.






April 2021

Admitted Desires

A low ceiling

with low light

walls soaked with notes

from sad trumpets,

melancholy pianos

the thoughtful trombone

--an amber drink cooling

in a low glass, still swirling

around a heavy cube of ice

made for me by a trim bartender

who smiled at my suit coat;

a seat beside a pretty girl

who understands everything

with kind & clever eyes

: this is what I want.
And I remind myself

of this, every time

I drop my heavy ice cube

into my own amber drink.

April 2021

A Novel Relationship

If I were a writer
maybe I could bring you here,
set you on this deck with me
and a sunset: watching bugs
fly on light beams shot through trees
or the gradual, then all-at-once
descent into true twilight.
Perhaps you’d feel the cool air,
the metal chair beneath you
and hear the birds, the highway,
someone’s dog barking; comment
on the light dripping upwards on trees.
Perhaps then I could explain
how it all connects to deep space,
sunsets and wormholes woven
in an endless quilt, or convince you
about the beauty of galaxies.
Or you’d teach me something,
and I’d murmur in amazement—
there is so much, I always find,
I simply do not know.
If I were a writer, I’d set it all down
and we’d be free to do other things,
this moment perfectly transfixed
for any rainy day, any convenient chair,
any cozy cup of tea, to turn a page
and step back into it. We’d always find it here,
a conversation with perfect understanding:
years on, I could saunter up
we’d still be there:
Have I told you about—
my, what a perfect evening!

April 2021

Easter Birds

The Easter birds at sunrise service
seemed out of place, somehow
singing vigorously behind
the Casio keyboard, and its housewife
belting hymns. The last sunrise
I attended, it was cold, so
the congregation, mostly old folks
huddled inside; at our token stand
outside the tulip & lily-soaked church
the birds were silent, leaving us
to feel out of place.
Twenty years later, walking the dog
I heard them again: in a copse of trees
almost aggressive in their sweet tones
recalling an innocence
I’d long forgotten: but new
every morning, it’s said.
I wonder if they tried
to sew the curtain back together
for Temple sabbath, the next morning;
and if birds sang the same that sunrise.
On the anniversary of death,
those left behind have vivid memories,
I’ve heard, and it makes me curious
if the Earth herself recalls this, too
with her winds, and mountains,
and her clueless, cheerful birds.

April 2021