This air

Is, at least

Partly mine

These bones, this skin

If only for a time

So don’t try

To take them from me

With your

Brutal, bullying headlines

Lands ravaged by

Starving, thoughtless warriors

Their new wars–

A punch in the stomach

Like an endless

Church tithe, or

The way traffic

Asserts itself

With studied persistence

Until the winning commuters arrive…

I have participated

For long now, in this design

The weave and dip

Of predetermined form

And line

And I am not one

Of your dictates, subscribing

To a clock’s exactitude

Neatly glued and mailed envelopes

With the right amounts inside

And a schedule

That appears to tremble

Out of fear

And suspicion–or

Am I?

Inside

The drunken hallway

Just past the 4th

Of July

They sang

Loud songs from the Seventies

As neighbors complained; verse

Chorus, another cabernet

Lips purple

Like last time, clowns

Up on the bed frame

dancing, head somewhere else–

The deck maybe, seeking

Immunity from the night…

The stars would probably like

To party, but they’re

Too far away

It doesn’t matter

What those idiots say

There’s still some left

In the bottle

And we’ll just play

That old song

Again, that old

Song again.

Do you know

How often I’ve left

My bed unmade, thinking

It would make

Life better?

Sometimes there’s paint

On the sheets, mistaken

For an image–

Or even sweat, unseen

There by the dusty sill

Which no one

Can ever seem to keep clean–

The steps I take

To bring order to a house

That has no interest

In my plans; the covers

fall askance–at an angle

Off the bed

Communing quietly

With the dust convened;

This enhanced sense

Of emptiness

No matter what

I do.

Out the window

It’s a partial world;

Blue to gray

Trees wildly unkempt–

The birds still

In them anyway

What other

Choice do they have?

Items in the cupboard

I didn’t know I had;

Old pots and pans

Not used for anything

In this partial world

I never eat at home

Let the professional chefs

Cook for me

Happy to overpay

For truffles and veal

And medium rare

Sirloin steak–

In those trees

The birds eat seed

And shoots or worms

If they can find any–

The mail, unread

In the green box outside

And if I did

There would be bills

To pay, regrets…

In a truly partial world

None of this

Would matter

To me.

Follow the heartbeat

To the place where

The bird lands

On the branch

With his nest twig–

The worm emerges cautiously

At dawn

And the spider climbs across

His silky web

To collect the less fortunate insects

Grown still

Amidst the breath of oceans

And west wind

In trees pushing

The day along to its middle

And the end, a conclusion

When the light becomes dim

The pulse of blood and fluid

And hope

Drives each creature to its window

Gap or doorway, of some sort

Waiting for the next

Impulse.

You gave me the book

And I left it closed

For fear a message

Might fall out of it

Like an old poem

That would take me by surprise…

And sure enough

Somewhere in the first pages

There it was–

A scribbled column

About finding Faith

Out on a morning run–

Seeing a light

And knowing it was one

Of belief, not doubt–

I put the verse

That fell out down

And remarked on

Just how much fear

And uncertainty

Have backed me

Into corners.

The gold

In the trees

At dawn

Tells me nothing

Except that I don’t

Dig deeply enough

For light, for line

For Truth, maybe;

Its beginning, its end

And the meaning of Life–

Like when

The bird lands

On the branch outside

Takes one look my direction

And flys immediately

Away.

A day

Can go

Any number

Of ways–thousands;

Look in drawers

You’ve not looked in

Lately and find

Something old

That’s new…

Wear a shirt

From a far end

Of the closet

Pick up the guitar

And play two chords

You’ve never played before–

Park the car randomly

And walk down some street or bluff

You’ve never explored

And say HI there

To an unfamiliar dog…

Brew a cup

Of Taiwanese green tea

And let it steep

For 5 minutes

And sip it

Like you might

A fine white Burgundy…

That kind

Of day.

State Street, SB

A conduit of promise

And a place

Of surreptitious poetry–words

Placed under doorways, in mailboxes

And on tables in coffee houses

Where only the daily paper’s headlines

Hold sway…the look

On people’s faces

When you hand them a book

“You’re giving this to ME?”

Or maybe even taped down

At random to the sidewalk

Under fallen packing tape

The police might look askance

At certain placement attempts

And janitors and late night clean up people

Will disperse of what words remain

Unread, unnoticed, left out

To be thrown away–

Or just as unexpectedly

You might hit your mark

When an anonymous soul

Writes to say “I found a book

And read a poem–the one

About the dog barking between songs

And the yellow moon rising up

And it meant something–

Hit a chord!”

You can never tell

What might actually happen

When you get the words out

On State Street.

You know

I want to be

Your lover

Until the sun only rises

And never sets on tomorrow;

Walk the shore of Maybe

And be certain

There is nothing blue there

Except for endless sky

And welcoming water;

Warmth, as we dip in our feet

Reaching deeply to catch a wave

At the ocean–the love we share

Is not just any kind of love

But one that’s rare

And tactile, never

Wasted plainly

But given in small bits

And smiles and words

Of encouragement–yes; praise

And calling, always

At the right moment

Knowing that’s

What’s supposed

To happen.