1. 
Into our bedroom’s dark funk, before dawn,
For the first time in months, drift fragments of song.
A robin—just back—on the garage roof
Threads this northern silence with notes.
Freezing drizzle, gray pall, the lawn piebald with snow--
But he’s giving thanks. His three limpid phrases
Of praise rise & fall, piercing my caul of sleep.
He’s the bridegroom of half-light, of dream.
Wished-for as clean water, the bright drops of his song
Stitch winter to spring. We’re no longer alone--
His voice marries us, and this is his psalm:
To live is to give voice. All days are one.
 
2.
This is the time of shape shifters. The skyline morphs
From peach to indigo. Raccoons materialize from drains.
Commuters climb into their carcoons, corpuscles in the city’s veins.
Houses exhale & stretch. Porch lights snap on.
The great blue heron flaps back to her roost. The barred owl
In the white pine blinks his yellow eyes, feels hunger stir.
A siren shrieks & from the shades, unseen coyotes keen:
A high, wild chorus to misfortune.
This is the time when, from the greenworld, deer appear,
As if formed out of smoke, in twos & threes,
To crop the grass with delicate precision. Shades of the ancestors
Drift closer, haunting the perimeters of home.
 
3.
There is so much to fear in the country of darkness.
You’ll think you’re sinking, you could founder in its waters,
That you’ll vanish like a bright coin tossed in a well,
That you’ll never swim back up or be recovered.
Know this: that one day you’ll be found
Up on the moors at midsummer, with curlews bubbling,
Cupped in rainwater in the hollow of an ancient stone.
A boy will find & burnish you & keep you in his pocket.
The moon’s bone ball swivels slowly in the socket of sky.
Night’s a corrective, a necessary physic.
Only at night can you glimpse the history of distant stars.
Only at night can you see how small, & how accompanied, you are.

​issuu.com/doorcountyliving/docs/ppv25i31_issuu

GRAVE STONE

​I filched a stone from my father’s newly-filled grave,
while the clay was still red clods,
before the turf was laid.
 
A grave man, he was often stony. I
stonewalled him. I bear the weight
of this, heavy as gravity.
 
I roll and knead the dark stone in my palm, grip
this nub of grief, this kernel of truth.
It sits snugly on my lifeline.
 
It’s small and ordinary, this milestone;
somewhat battered, nicked, uneven.
Bits of red dirt cling still to the crevices.
 
One time I touched my tongue to it, wanting
to taste the clay he lies in, partake
some remnant of it, make it part of me.
 
It tastes faintly of salt, a mineral communion.
I rub and finger it, the way the tongue
traces the new topography
 
of the mouth when a tooth falls out.
It’s triangular but has soft, rounded edges.
It feels familiar, well-worn, solid, warm.
 
But you could break your teeth on it.
 

​

My poems "First Anniversary" and "Mayday Manifesto" from the winter 2018 issue of Boomer LitMag.

THINGS I LEARNED THIS MONTH
after William Stafford
 
Honey-bees point their co-workers toward food,
dancing to show which way to fly, and for how long.
 
Sometimes you can forget how to speak,
if you pass your days in silence.
 
An old man from Mexico with Alzheimer’s
was shot dead by a cop in California
 
who assumed that he was armed. In fact,
the object in his pocket was a wooden crucifix.
 
A sunflower’s face is made of hundreds
of tiny flowerets inside the disk.
 
When Tranströmer’s right hand was paralyzed by a stroke,
he taught himself to play piano with the left.
 
The people who built Stonehenge and other Neolithic
monuments and tombs were most likely teenagers.
 
Less than 60 years after the first manned aircraft flew
for just three seconds, astronauts were orbiting the earth.
 
The human eye relaxes when gazing at distant objects
in the landscape, and finds the color green most restful.
 
After being temporarily blinded in a factory accident,
John Muir went on a thousand-mile walk.
 
When my heart stops, I do not want to be
resuscitated. I want to close the door quietly, and go.
 
Finback whale-speech travels further than that of any
other mammal: a hundred miles underwater, maybe more.
 
Ice has an entire sonic repertoire—it can sound
like explosions or gunshots, or music from another world.
 
 
ORACLE
 
Once, at nineteen, I stopped a man
on the street to ask if he had the time.
 
No,” he replied. “But I have
the record of its passing.”
 
It was a gray day, on a grimy street
in a small provincial town.
 
I was on my way to the dentist,
fretting I might be late.
 
He was an older man,
in a suit of some kind,
 
a little formal, but not memorable--
tweed, or perhaps a trench coat.
 
I never did learn the time.
I have never forgotten.
 
I mention this in the same way
certain things loom out at you
 
when you’re on a bike
and pedaling hard, focused,
 
and afterwards all you remember
are instants, imprinted:
 
a killdeer on the shoulder, feigning a broken wing,
or a hillside covered in clover,
 
or the small, round hole in the road
that could have thrown you.