joy
On Disappearing
I have not disappeared.
The boulevard is full of my steps. The sky is
full of my thinking. An archbishop
prays for my soul, even though
we met only once, and even then, he was
busy waving at a congregation.
The ticking clocks in Vermont sway
back...
Tiptoe Lightning
Tragedy saunters to the pit, swinging its depth charge. If you had X-ray vision you could watch these bones climbing the Mountain Vainglorious without quite touching the ground. Let's ruin our letters, erase all foreign prospect. So many expeditions are but fictive inflections, the garbled ambition of someone stepping up with, like, something less lovely than the legs of Rome. Thumb power instead of “timber:" The answer from above the stage rattles our windows, a modern letter sent from antiquity, its blurred flourish abundantly gutted.
The Day After Labor Day
September breeze, an island chill,
the streets so quiet . . . still,
seem wider now
but soon they fill
with gulls
that stride and squawk
and boldly walk
the middle of the road—
I wish I understood
gull-talk
perhaps they, too, feel harmony
no crowds, no noise
now once again
just sand, waves, sky, and sea
. . . just gulls and me