In small
hard to see corners
of the kitchen
the tiny black spiders
come out to feed
at my feet
on crumbs and specks
of food that have fallen–
not minding, apparently
my gargantuan presence
loud sounds, heat, stomping
and other signs
of juggernaut…
they twirl their tidbits
and finds to a certain delight
between thrifty appendages
I can appreciate
the courage, hunger, pursuit
In every form…
they are not mine
But December’s
own.

Lying in bed
flat against the world
like a one-sided railroad track
with no train coming–
or maybe it has
and you missed it
in dreamless sleep;
twisting sheets to knots
sitting on fences this year
without enough room for indecision…
If it was a wall, at least
you could fall
Like Humpty Dumpty did;
break and start over–
but it’s not, and you’re skewered
on a slat
lying in that bed
imagining it’s a boat
on an open sea sailing
with a jury-rigged
pillow case sail, toward
some imaginary horizon
a sea of sweat that’s drying
fast and rough
like glue you could use
to fix the leaks and holes
if only it would pull
up and off the bone
but there is no giving
it’s all wishing things
would be different;
awake at 2:08 a.m.
when you should sleep straight
til dawn, and
the enduring blackness outside
is somehow, in the end
befitting of this poem.

I painted
a rock face for you
but decided to keep it
as it was (I determined)
too good for you
in your constant grim
remonstrative moods
undeserving–and why
the light is still on
in the back room
illuminating nothing
I will never know, or
similarly, why
the sheets are canary yellow
(even gold) where you
once slept
next to me, coldly
Never even
reaching over
a single time
to ask me how I felt–
No–it’s final
you will not get
the painted green and red
cobble face; he’s even
smiling now, sort of
forever…knowing
you won’t
own him.

Invention, artifice, decor;
the sound of water
on a wooden roof
which we call rain–
it’s only a name: rain
not the actual element
by itself, a priori
which, originally
had no label, descriptor
or fitting set of letters…
only water falling namelessly
on an unstructured world of
dunes, mountains, open meadows
a drumming of pellets
like bullets before
there were bullets
or guns
to fire them
In just another day
just another day
before there were people
and thusly, no need
for names.

Not now Starfish–
Don’t come up
On the sand
Where the world
Will kill you and
Collect you and
Put you up
On some mantle
to dry out
and be neglected…
Please stay
In the sea
Where the fish
And other creatures
Will understand
Your beauty and
Simple purpose–
Your perfect pointedness
And why it is
You live such
A solitary life
Clinging to rocks
and crawling across
The sand.

There is a Christmas
I may never know
Underneath a tree
That doesn’t exist;
Fragrant smell of pine
A fire snapping
By boxes of all colors
Perfectly wrapped
And lit like little gems
On all sides…
Maybe this season exists
At the nape of your neck
Where it plunges beneath
The red scarf to a world
Of blankets pulled back
Revealing secrets
Of love and warmth,
The slight smell of salt
And perfume on the smooth
Dry, unpainted canvas
Of your skin–like a present
You will someday offer…
Yes–I know this Christmas;
It exists a foot away
In the next chair, or
A universe afar, across
A room full of revelers, laughing
There, where the shadows
Become morning and you decide
Everything you’ve been given
Is a gift–including life.

At 7:00 a.m.
the sun brightens
a far window
a universe unto itself
exploding orange;
the being knows
its outer shell
but not its inner soul
there is no turning back
with these reflections
to interpret; the hardness
of early December
underfoot; a stranger
smiling and looking past
your nameless passage
trees which have lost
no green since August
I cannot rearrange
the rocks in the creek
they make shapes
and faces mocking
my understanding
but i laugh before
the winter water comes
to rearrange their patterns
I collect all the pebbles
I can–build
small arrangements of them
on shelves at home
little cairns and hills
behind which moths die
and dust gathers up
This is the way
It turned out
I accept that I have
No mastery.

Isn’t there something
other than Death
to draw dawn’s curtains wide
and close the day?
The old man
I keep seeing
at the street corner
two blocks away
and the widow woman
(Charlotte is ner name)
Who walks the town in quadrants;
pacing, marching, on schedule–
testing the paper machines
for stray quarters…
maybe the moon
tired of its rounds
which looks down
and states “next time
I will simply fall”
But fallen leaves
here at my feet
of red, yellow and green
are not enough
to convince anyone
to live less fully–
No, it’s true
I expected more
and got less
and I will find a way
to be happy, even
blissful with
the news.

My mother
used to marvel
at the design
on the tops
of eucalyptus acorns
and say how
they looked so much
like crosses to her
Celtic and Christian;
her whole home
was made of crosses
a favorite shape
and symbol
So after she died
we sprinkled her ashes
in the garden
by the cliff
where those acorns fall
from the big trees
and gather
and sometimes I put
a handful of them
on her spot, amidst
the daisies and
the iceplant
and I hope
someone
remembers.

This transformation of words
into a clothesline
in the yard
with its garments hanging,
barely moving in the wind
that’s what the day is like–
you put the clothes out
and then
you simply have to wait;
wait for the silence
wait for the answers
because there are none–
and wait again
because you were born
to wait…
there is a single yellow light
in a window
in the distance
and your words can never
fully describe its shining
of clarity and purpose
but you will try
and be grateful
that it will soon be time
to take the clothes
off the clothesline
because they
are finally
dry.