ok

no, it's not okay--

but i will forgive you

without your permission:

narrative, like a gift, is

not yours to control

may 2023

it's fine, though

it won't be

                    forever

(no matter what); so

might as well enjoy

                                   now

may 2023

shut-ins

do you think closed windows are a sin

she asked, at summer dusk dangling legs

into the pond of an imagined childhood--

it's in a book somewhere; i'm listening to it

in my earbuds, glancing next to me, hoping

nobody will try to speak to me.  She spreads

her arms overhead in tranquil joy: see the beauty

of a late sunset! As the train thunders deep

underground, all of us tucked into screens.

2023

Dark mercy

He’d been told not to, so when it broke

his mom sent him to his room to wait for dad.

That night, there was an accident.

Decades later, underneath everything,

his legs still dangle from the dark bed,

listening to a panic phone call in the kitchen

fearing a punishment that never came.

May 2023

Moss

Moss between poured concrete slabs

trees growing from the tops of boulders

late summer spiders making giant webs

squirrels in their nests, impossibly high 

bees making hives where I’d knocked them down

last year’s flowers, blooming after the freeze:




inevitable Life

indelible Beauty

insatiable thirst for growth and light




like us, after death

after sleep

after giving up

in a moment: 




well,

maybe we can—

the universe smiles at us

and time thunders on

clearing the way.

The Mural

i notice my heart's beating really fast

probably too much caffeine

something indistinct feels very sad.




there are at least two mournings:

dismay with what is

& grieving what is not.




it's hardest, for most of us

when both hit at once;

like death, i guess.




the abstract temporality of it

seems difficult for us to handle:

hard to average it out over decades.




in the house where my dad grew up

one wall was a mural of a Tuscan villa;

we all ate English muffins there one day




when I was a kid, toaster on the table

buttering the mottled surface,

the perfect breakfast, never repeated.




after my dad's mom died they sold the house

so I'll never see that mural again, or

eat a meal in that quiet, flower-filled dining room.




that's the second kind, I think; the first

is when I sit blankly at table in a messy room

all alone, in so many strange ways




realizing, this is it: this is me as a grown-up

and it feels like squandering a lead,

spoiling potential with misuse and neglect.




my heart is still beating very fast

but now it doesn't bother me as much;

I am slipping into that Tuscan coastline




barefoot, with a much younger grandfather

chuckling beside me, having never made

any of these mistakes.
















may 2023

Meaning

There is an uproar of laughter

ringing along the Cosmos--
"What would you be?" It gasps,

full of mirth, "if not tortured?"


And to its divine credit
I don't have an answer.










May 2023