Things Fall Away

Someone’s calling, maybe,
but I’ve left my phone in the car,
again, beneath the boots, behind the passenger seat.
The problem is, it’s now too much for a man to
wake up, get dressed, and walk simply
out from this place. It’s too much when
he’s nothing to lose, except his clothes,
and the door, once it’s opened, and his breath
in the cold air’s windy glow. There’s nothing
that will stop him from tip-toeing across
the invisible coals, naked like the snow.
Out here, things do their best, naturally,
to hide, by trying out as other things,
such as forgetting, or a kind of certainty
that follows the lost. And it’s strange
how things lose themselves when they
have been left right there, out here in the open,
but our eyes, of course, in the end,
adjust to darkness, and belong to every fallen thing.
Like that stuff on the walkway,
the chalky equations we don’t understand.
The scalped footprints, trampling each other
as they make their way without the light.
Or, that satellite pretending to be a falling star inside
the milky way, dropping away from
the faraway crescent moon,
a flag.

Rivers Again

I write about rivers again,
As if they were about love.
The raft, for instance, I saw,
Glued-together by summer of
Tamarack reflections.
Winter is here
To suffocate,
Smoothly disfigure into
A perfect smooth bruise.
So, love buries loss,
Before it creates it.
Every word is a second language.
Rivers are clear
About this: they are ghosts.
They leave, they come,
They are never here.
Only bodies swim.
Only a body holds a promised land.
Only bodies drown.

Headlights Over Wellesley Pond

The evenings have become cooler,
but I don’t mind. It’s the darkness I fear.
It comes sooner.
But, I don’t want to drive away now; I see love,
and when I turn the headlights off over Wellesley Pond
and your voice on the phone begins to come in clear,
there are the stars.
As if you’ve travelled with them to be here.
So that’s not it.
It’s that I don’t want to trip over what I cut away,
those places where I failed love,
the stars that became holes.
It’s that darkness
that makes me shiver.

The wind is just

The wind is just

A metaphor for the soul,
the way light is,
or a metaphor for emptiness,
the way rain is – except
in a field at the end of winter,
preparing a way
for the sun.

Trail

Bootprints track in meltwater,
And, I recall the deer this morning
That turned into the woods,
Unveiled trails of breath
Upwards, feeding
For air, then speeding into the city,
Cars singing, like whales,
The snow-waved sidewalks
Which mean
It rains so much without seeing it,
Then, sitting on a chair nearest the door,
The deer followed me,
Came in so close,
I knew she was gone.

Winter

I’m sorry you’re no longer here
to see this. I needed to stay.
You may as well be snow.
Beautiful, silent, pure.
I needed a landscape.
You loved to drift.

The Wonder

After all
that,
the thing
you
don’t know
now
are the
instructions
for forgetting,
which you think
must
be
in a form
resembling
braille,
or
perhaps
the scrap
of her
brief
query
made
to a friend,
just before
she
erased
the thing
written,
what
to do
with
you?
No, you don’t know
how
silence can
take
up
all
these
lines,
then, in
a manner of speaking,
allow the words
all at once,
to come
to you,
as if only
a
single
word,
that it is in
the
way
you must
trace the
letters
back
out to
the north lakes,
sense ice beneath
’til it’s thin
as air,
keep breathing
all of it
in,
deep as it
will take you
until
the ice
is out.

Photographer

We spoke of taking pictures,
that vision briefly visits, like light.
Delusion’s weather, too, and
here today are its giant legs of fog,
stomping out its figures,
splashing cattle on the grizzled creek,
tripping over slumps of fields
and spitting into culverts.
Clouds swim low as mud,
ignorant of every bird they’ve drowned.
Feathers blur as my green-eyed lashes
grey in notes of rain,
which come to sing to worms,
draw away the snakes of mist.
“Leave me,” they will sing,
to see what I am in this world,
“Let me take the picture I swore I saw.”
But nothing hears how silent I am; I stay still
as I can be, but nothing moves.

Books

The books of poetry tower
from the bedside table.
At night they are a pillar,
the rib of
a lost colosseum,
or occasionally, when the moon comes,
steps of a cathedral.
Some nights the moon comes and
carries them to
the ceiling, mirroring
my descent.
I have this very old dream: they are waiting
for me in a bright current
so that I can find the words
to read to them again.
At night, they are a bridge.

Three Canoes

 

Yesterday I saw my canoes,
three still lives trapped in snow.
I thought of you, the ice
that keeps alive the dead.
But today, I see you differently.
I view you as haiku,
then as three crosses from the hill,
silent but forsaken.