Sunday, October 1st, 2006

Surrendering September

The mist hangs back

Behind the great stone ridge.

Three days it waits,

Silvering the sky,

Softening shadows,

And stretching twilight

On its billowing back

Before quenching the dust--

The road gone black,

The night gone gray,

And summer simply gone.

Monday, October 2nd

Vigil

I fall in stages,

Eyes the first to go,

Smearing the night

Into a dull winding blur,

A wash and a softness

Entreating the ear,

The inner keel,

That it's safe to fly,

That the weight on my bones

Is nothing compared

To the weight on my mind.

And it won't be long

Before the guy upstairs

Looses his voice

And winds his way

Down the spiral stairs,

The light long dim

And the ocean of day

All dried away.

Just a few more lines

Till they all have their way.

All that's left

Is to sand out the burr,

Pull the thorns, the needles,

And stitch the wounds

Of the muse's palms

So that she isn't the last

Content to sleep--

Isn't left unguarded

To pinch me in my dreams.

Tuesday, October 3rd

Following Theater

We watch them play.

To play is to pretend.

We know this.

They know it too:

They're not crazy.

But they understand

That we've forgotten.

They pity us and sigh

When we remind them,

Because it's there--

So plainly there--

Beneath the beach towel

Tucked into the collar,

A cape whipping in flight;

Beyond the pantomime

Of artifacts of great import,

As real somewhere

As father's pen,

As mother's book,

And just as forbidden.

Inside each negotiation

Of every stage direction

Shaping a world

Half seen but fully felt,

There is more

Which is true

Than is real,

Regardless of how

Sincerely we pretend.

Wednesday, October 4th

Representing America

I can apologize,

Mi dispiace,

In Italian.

For being a tourist

And for speaking like a child,

My R's flat on every side.

It seemed a better use

Of vocabulary

Than learning questions,

The answers to which

I'd never understand.

Where is the taxi?

Which way to the museum?

The restrooms?

I'm sorry.

I am a tourist.

I speak little Italian

And my tongue is clumsy

As my nations leadership.

For which, again,

I am sorry.

The restrooms?

Thursday, October 5th

Straightjacket

He swerves, this boy,

Around nothing,

Around himself,

Every step half in chasm,

Knees and neck

Drunk on the timid trust

Of everlasting newness,

The body a reed

Green to the core

And bending in the gale

Of too much stillness,

Of too much hush

Between the glaciers

Of strangers passing

At the helm

Of their shopping carts.

He is a bullet,

A zombie,

A fighter jet,

A body slam,

A devious whisper

Wandering through

Racks of empty clothes,

A marionette

Flailing into tomorrow,

Or a suit himself:

The man he aims to be

Already up to his elbows,

Stammering,

Stumbling,

Stretching out

His small shirt of skin,

His vast mind of clay.

Friday, October 6th

A Poet's Wish

Just a few wisps of will

To drape over a reader's path,

Cast a shadow on a broken tree

Leaning on an insight

Already timeless and tall,

Or dipping a cup

Into wisdom's well

In search of solace,

Surprised by a dry lament

Squeezed for a teaspoon of ink

Hopefully agile enough

To be teased

Into a final line.

Saturday, October 7th

Exploring Heaven

Meadow is the word:

Green and perfect,

The cure for a fear

That's gone before

The hush can find it.

The strange peace

From the top of the hill

Runs down into nothing

Until I recall that

Valley is the word:

Squares of tillage,

Stands of pine,

And small white blocks--

Home is the word,

And one of them mine,

Just down the road.

Though in the other direction,

That place I am heading,

Is a field of horses

Wild as the wind,

But for one

Already watching,

Already hoping

To take me away,

Faithful and unafraid

To the edge of everything

And back again.

And the word for that,

At the top of my map,

I never understood

Until now.