We’ve been here before
just passing through, post-
well, everything
boarded windows, fallen walls
rubble, rust, dust
blowing dust
cows and cotton, concrete blocks
on concrete towers, brush-piled
tumbleweeds, pecan trees, dead
pecans, oil derricks and trains
for miles empty miles
and miles
here we celebrate small
seasons, breath
between freeze and swelter
prickly pear paddles grown
green, fringed, wind
whipped up from the lake
verbena, butterfly-winged
I meant to tell you something sweet
to draw this conceit
of how a summer-full flower
sunlit and smooth
can still be of use
when cut, dead and dried
You see it started with my hands
the skin folds like old petals
and speckled with brown after all
we can’t stop time except
for hours this afternoon
I watched two boys throw and catch a ball
stand and stretch on that barren strip
of car-lined concrete
arm-whip and stoop and whip again
and my fingers curled with the urge
to let something rip
vigor and fury of muscle better
than pen-scratch, or sit and sip
this insipid tea
Raised on books I dreamed
of hawking and now I want
this raven, to call it
strong to my wrist
with such a longing I once had
to hold a child in my arms
But its magnificence
that black eye black
beak the breadth of it
vast wings open and fold
pause, a thoughtful look
through the glass, me
Use all as a tool, dear, to build a shelter for
your mind, and others in need. —Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky
The tools are here: room of one’s own
unprecious time, colored pencils, light
from the window, yarn called pumpkin and
yarn called spice, even butterscotch and cotton
cord, beads, stamps, wire, awl and bone
folder, oodles of thread, necessary
candle, cup of tea, smell of sweet basil
hung to dry and
here I find myself
sitting I wonder
what to make of it all
I would tell you I don’t believe
anymore the truth is
I carry superstition
deep in a pocket, folded
tiny and tight
No one sees
and sometimes I find it
sad and shredded
like a forgotten tissue
in the wash
Chasing the sun today—fifty miles
and five thousand feet down
into the valley for the idea
of ten degrees of warmth—
we hurry to pack lunch as
the weather app says
clouds will come
by mid-afternoon
In the event, as we picnic
and walk we shed layers,
search for a hint of shade,
our winter-tuned skin tenderest
on the backs of necks, feeling a lack
of hat. Back home, the breeze
is too cold and I fold
up the patio chairs
blame it on the sunny Saturday, so
caressed by daffodil yellow
hunting for lilac leaves, perhaps
in the dream of the moment all forgotten
it is not okay
to move toward someone, to stretch out your hand.
well, his look of reproach
as good as a wall
the box carefully set
on the sidewalk
between us.
(in the house, in the box a dress
sky-blue eyelet—
the mirror and I admired it)
we tiptoe now more than ever
the verges of all
comfort, this house we’ve built
probably delicate
at foundation though
truth be told
we haven’t looked in years
*
I surprised myself by thinking the beard was attractive but
perhaps it was merely youth or coloring or how he leaned over
a computer for doesn’t that speak brains? it could have been
silver hair, or glasses. bow-tie and glasses. shoulder’s curve, certain
combos of eyes/lips, forearm beyond rolled-up sleeve. dressing up
the urges to make them make sense. and then
with clear maturity of thought I told myself you can’t
have everything, not in one person, not in a hundred.
what then, this craving
to bring every ever-changing facet of beauty within?
a step away from the graywhite world
off the cliff and to what warm breath
what greengold chasm
what impossible delight
Graceful Press Poetry 