Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Once the juniper branches
catch, sweet smoke covers
the stale curry and cigarettes.
Blue spruces circle closer
as if waiting for news. Between
trunks, embers of yellow eyes
flicker, the very forest leans in.
Patient thus far with half-truths,
how long before they tire
of this thin and facile fire?
Saturday, November 30, 2013
I'm looking for the word to whisper
to the boatman as I lean in and palm
him a twenty. I have always been looking
for words. Once, after a weekend away,
I came home to find that nothing
was where I had left it, including her,
but do you think I could find the word
for that, for how life would feel
from then on, knowing that people
could jump in and out of existence
like excitable subatomic particles? Mostly
I have had to settle for coming near
to a thing, for letting a first experience
with aurora borealis dissemble
into metaphor, for comparing the smile
of a beautiful woman to rain in the desert,
all the while knowing--even as I peer over
the ferry's starboard rail into the dark river
(because a smile like that will linger)--
knowing that's not it at all, you've missed it
again, old man, not even close.