In the winter
we eat sharp white cheddar
and drink the sweet cream sherry
we bought at a rural supermarket
in Oklahoma on a roadtrip.
It’s what we do to get us through
the spurning of the sun.
The thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.
We sit by white walls
and fireplace fires,
and feel the fibers of sweaters
against our swollen skin.
It’s what we do to forget lovers
who spurned us
and learn to know each other,
learn to grow old,
to somehow have courage as
we become cowards.
The memories of autumn,
the smell of fallen leaves,
the emptying of the streets,
these things seem sweet to us
the thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.
She had a monochromatic mole on
Just above her brow
It played with a poetry of brown hair
like the breath of the beach and the
blue sky above it
Every single moment that I walked
away from a window
where she stood
was like a new eon being created in
A crystal star, a crest of drawing ocean
One unique feeling
amongst all the lives that have lived
We are divorced.
The children don’t walk into
the kitchen to see us.
The children don’t exist in
or the backseat of
moving through moonlight
Your hair falls for some other
silence on the bathroom
The grime on the light switch
Another family moves in.
Industrial Revolution is
It defeats the unpresentable.
The solo. The non-perfected.
to have come close to your life
on a crag by the sea
dreaming by your hips
your scent of cream
believed in you at midday
on bad days
in imperfect ways
a corridor of wood
in an old building
that is the feeling gone now
of cold coming in
through the windows
to have come close to your soul
with the leaves underfoot
in a forest
“she will not travel naught
into solar incineration.
she will not sing the song of spring.
she will not lift her heart.
you must carry it to your grave
all the seas of the mediterranean
when walking in the ozarks,
the blues and yellows,
the browns of her hair,
the earth of your love.
she does not love redemption.”
The poem of the body
You, I made in silence
Your eyes hold the lights of every
baroque room ever entered
The air tries to talk and cover your figure
but your shape is uncontainable,
statuesque and curved,
rustic long-endured perfection from the
mountain roads of mud for horse carts
Supsense always the nature of your presence
The sweet kissed tension near your mouth
Your lips are stones that the Earth
as the Sea
lashes at and they turn men to boys
who brought all these pebbles to the edge
of these far off shores
These shores laid out to gray skies at the
end of the world
Our days set out near to die
I’d fallen in hotels your soft blouse in my
your brunette strands break the dour moments
of funerals and mourners
I admit I mourn now, but still I drink white
wine in the spring to honor your passing
to clasp down on my heart
to keep hold of
what May believes continues to exist
Your imperfect legs
squatty and muscled and fecund
a couple places of cellulite
for thirty-six seasons.
Mine kept from the stars
kept from eternality.
in darkened bedrooms
in New York City
or in sundresses and statuesque
under the everlasting skies
of Mexico and Texas.
They are beautiful and sacred now
in my memory
underneath the overarching sky.
Your life remains lasting
corporal and ethereal
what the summation of human journeys
calls perfectness, imperfectness
A journey arched before the cosmos
I chased the waters of the Mediterranean
to recreate you.
The light continues to praise you.
It journeys and journeys.
The birds make their way
towards the sun
in the morning.
The winter’s here.
Your imperfect legs are gone.
You ran away. That’s it.
Places of America.
Answers in cafes,
treelines along highways,
the unbroken horizons of the stolen
Medicine far away.
A different cosmology.
To wade in saltwater far away.
Pancakes in Delaware.
Toss that electricity into a portal
on the other side of the Milky Way.
We will die before anyone truly understands
any of this human or American stuff.
We will die before it’s you that realizes
you ran away.
Does consciousness realize itself?
Is there a memory called love
or an overturned wooden rowboat
on the beach in Oregon,
is that a metaphor of a Saturday
that is too old?
That is gone before the jealousy
of the ocean’s fury
with children in red hats
chasing the seaspray’s reflection.
All the little ways that love falls apart
To perfectly part, not to perfectly part
Left a bag in a cart on a subway
On Sunday argued in the pouring rain
Fucked up the umbrella, then annihilated it
against a cold gray light pole
off the avenue
Were we trying to understand something?
The dog you didn’t train very well went to
a good home
where a young boy loved her with all his
and she passed away after about seven years
I left a bowl on the table
You said don’t do that
I said “so, sue me”
You wanted more salt in the dish
The rain soaked kisses made your kisses taste
in the air
when we breathed over fresh cut fields
at a different time, different place
when we should have always made up
when we did we made up really good
I found a piece of her brunette hair
embedded in the back of a painting she gave me.
I could no longer bear to see that painting
so I took it down from my wall.
But I took her hair and laid it on a shelf
all alone with a Japanese Shinto prayer for
On the 4th of each month I gather to meditate
for 42 minutes around the hair and Shinto prayer,
focusing on all the preciousness behind that hair
and praying for everlasting life for our love.
I don’t believe I’ll ever see an answer to my hopes
and prayers in this life.
But still I pray and protect the existence of that hair
with all the allegiance of a monk in a remote monastery
where time has passed by
and he knows no other way of being,
where time has passed by
and his sacred, unending faith continues.
The sunrise is transitory
when it touches me
and I use it
to talk to you clandestinely.
The light talks to
your sacred pituitary gland
you know me
in your head
you’ve set out
to forget me,
on this sweet Earth.
It’s what we share.
It’s how we love.
I give thanks
diffuse modulatory systems,
they make you human
you work your hardest
not to be,
to be callous, resentful and cold
you grow old.
I grow eternal.
I know you’re not a robot
the sunlight traveling
tells you something otherwise
your corporeal heart
that rushes upon the universe,
that your head
occasionally listens to.