The sun is our center
bringing light and life.
Painted on the walls
of Lascaux caves,
the sun illuminates
the bulls
and the Magdalenian
artists.

in the beginning
there were no delineations markers or boundaries shaping his from
hers
quotation marks he said she said
rivers mapping theirs from ours

pluck a single card from a shuffled deck
and there’s a one-in-fifty-two chance
that you now hold the two of hearts.

all our potential futures that we think exist somewhere
in maybe or one day

The random caws of crows
I hear as I unload the dishwasher.
I look out to see three birds gathered
round the war memorial
and the flag.

for those that are tempted to drink from the fountain of hate
beware of that bittersweet nectar
even as it feels like honey running down your chin
you will realize its acidic burning nature
as it bores a trail into your soul

The Derwent’s not in any rush. Green surf
Of trees, the rocky crests of peaks now still
Enough to watch their sister wind downhill
And salve exploited wounds of quarried earth.

“There are no words…” with tragedy
Or times absurd or ends unknown
Is tragic in its own accord
For words may be all that we own

As another moonlight saunters
on inlets,
let’s agree Saturn can set:
the moons will use its rings as a table,
and as euphoric as their blurry mind
can be like
MDMA intoxication.

“We’ve been thinking,” the angels say
 (they work for Krishna now—God knows
he’s got too much to do, what with all
that attention the rich demand these days)
“and we’re going to send you back as a cat.”

I listen to
swells
and
falls of the lark
in Williams’ grand tribute to
Albion

The blanket tucks my head away from the world.
My eyelids shut.
My knees fold into my stomach, and then
the plane you boarded to Orlando
crashes in Georgia before you can make your way to me.

Away from myself, always, the blade angles
to save – dulls itself to keep, the hands wanting
to preserve even as the soul soils. I crave the bone
the meat the only thing hunger simmers under,
simmers for, for loneliness the gnaw (the echo
died, do you even beat) of never being touched.

we landed here
a reprieve
from Arizona heat
from reminders
of a house needing
paint and spackle
and a yard drowning in sun

Midnight
between
Mexico City and the highlands
the night
spun
into deep velvet
air so dense I couldn’t understand
how we could pass

On Tuesday
I wake early and fix breakfast
turn over the hourglass on the table
Out the door as chauffeur by 7:30
Personal trainer and nutritionist at 8:30
Errand maid at 9:30
Data Engineer from 10:30 to 3
I want to quit my job

A kiss on the lips,
my lover,
is all I wanted,
when the lights
got low and
time got short;

Great blue heron, white in high green,
folds on self, forward falls toward water,
clear space, wingspan wind-catch, rise in flight.

I am semi-trailer truck in someone else’s tender canoe
— steep banks through suburbs, six crows
from one bank to the other frenzy a hawk

Auntie Jane’s blanket,
attic stored, air cloved,
with her knitted cable yarn
she hums a morning tune.

To enjoy his selected poems
he only reads the first stanza
before going to bed
and keeps the second one

From the window of the faded ranch
I watched a bird floating in the kiddie pool:
a loon, with its reticulated band of stars.
I knew which bird it was from the tilt

I haven’t always wanted to be
in the same boat with them
but when the time comes, I hope
there’ll be room for me in that lifeboat

Maybe you’ve lost
your patience
with your country
with a loved one
with yourself.

Commutes are the distances between
events. Some days I’m stuck with these
Black Mountain hipsters, pissing off
their North End balconies even on
a Tuesday.

The rumors ever forever true
our tombs and fate entwine
the looming absinthe pearl
we’re hardwired nigh plagued
the minds of the masses now jaded
plugging the hole as crevices swirl
one day we’ll displace
likened to lemmings to gorges