Friday, July 31, 2009


The nature of things
in the cold they cannot hear

the near human groan of the pipes,
tap water courses through

the veins of the house,
and nothing comes clean and

nothing makes sense and only
the dirt gathers interests

‘though there’s nothing engaging
about it, it’s a revolution on kitchen floors
with scuffed, slippery tile when trips

to the coffee maker
are spasms of what won’t

get done in a hurry or at all
lest the world conclude its business

and the crisp spring air cascades
through the house in swirls

like lithe, perfumed lace,through the screen door
that slides no more

and is always ajar
when a door is not room you can’t

walk into (say “mush) ,
getting sentimental over dishes and knives, forks and orts
as they are beheld months before

you’ll seen them again
as the layer of grime

that is gelled and congealed
on the tile floor

that contains generations of
dirt and dust, smashed ants,

notes to the milk man, indentations

from the heels of leather shoes
and sneakers, that bald remainder
that things get-dirty again
no matter how hard you

press your knees to the floor,
amazing, isn’t,
how utterly strange
that scrubbing pad feels in your hand,

trails of dull, lute warn water
running up your wrist
to your elbow,

where the water
gathers in
a pool that defies gravity
until the weight is too much

and it must let go
one drip at a time?

Thursday, July 9, 2009

I See the Moon

Kate, a young girl edging up on two years old, said her first complete sentence the other week, "I see the moon". I thought, "Wonderful".
I see the moon
has a face
covered in ashes,
he reads under the covers
with a flashlight
made of dawn.
The moon is what I see
when my eyes are closed
and the stars
swirl in circles
around the edge
where the ocean
teases the shore,
the moon clears his eyes,
his smile lights up the water to the sand.
I awake to the sun
pouring daylight
in my heavy, swollen eyes,
every beam of light
a baton that taps
the window sill
to strike up the band.
Birds, bicycle bells,
low voices from boxes serious as salt,
the moon has vanished over the horizon,
the moon has gone to sleep,
the moon has pulled
a hill side over his face
and dreams of clear, dark skies
and the night song of small things
and all things in between.