she found it
heavy

and wet
and struggling

to stand
in the shallows

of the creek
a fawn

not a week
or two old

the woman called
to me

from the creek
and passed

the fawn up
to me

it collapsed
on the grass

of the trail
trembling

and exhausted
it bawled

for its mother
i sat down

beside it
and dried

and warmed
its small body

of sticks
after a while

it stood
and made its way

carefully clumsily
into a thicket

of briars
and it was there

that i left it

who will find us in those first moments of life?
who will hold us in our final hour?

who will light the candle?
who will blow it out?

shoeless
he sat on the sidewalk

and leaned into the shade
of a graffitied wall

he began drinking
from his brown bagged bottled

and when he finished
it was with great effort

that he stood
carefulish not to make contact with cars

or oncoming pedestrians  
he spilled himself

into the street
into the tilting sunlight

of harlem

my grandfather
went inside

to get more bullets
in a voice

not meant
for me to hear

he said
to my grandmother

he doesn’t have the eye
his brother has

with shaking hands
with my final bullet

i put a hole
clean through the head

of lincoln

sometimes when i miss my mother
i feel for the pulse on the wrist of my wife
hers is steady and strong
  
waiting there
as my mother slowly slipped away
a nurse taught me how to find the pulse

in her final moments
when she stopped breathing
her heart ceased beating
and her pulse faded away
i felt it in my fingertips

so now

sometimes when i miss my mother
i feel for the pulse on the wrist of my wife
hers is steady and strong  
and i know exactly where to find it

so suddenly thundered
ripped from sleep

tipped tossed tumbled
out into the under

of such endless grief
and rubble

now
we pace and pray

now
we scratch and claw at wires and crumbs

now
we shriek with absolute loss

yet all the while
wishing and waiting and wanting

to rise
to rise
to rise

sparks arc
the air

and sigh
into darkness

what was
once

is now
gone


      ]and so grinds grief[     ]the very pit of it[      ]the incessance[


and there will come a day

to shake down stars
and rediscover

and there will come a day

to push sorrow aside
and wake wanting

but not today
and certainly

not now

stirring my silence
with a spoon
i discovered this

deeper down
i found
different shapes
and colors

rinsing each
in the sink
i placed them
on the counter
to dry

later i rearranged
them slightly
and made this

stood before
the gathering sea

face to face
how it beckoned me

and when at last
i turned away

the sea was colored
charcoal grey

sunday wakes in the center of the city
black lives matter plaza begins to stir with each bus offering more and more humanity
a homeless man stops to pick up a used cigarette from the sidewalk
he blows on it, places it gently in his pocket, and walks on

at the st regis hotel, i sit behind a 12 paned floor to ceiling window
it is framed in dark beautiful wood and curtained in heavy red velvet
i am waiting to have breakfast with my uncle
he is half blind with macular degeneration and his leukemia and prostate cancer are in remission
he is always well dressed and punctual
over $33.00 plates of scrambled eggs and smoked bacon, we discuss the past, the present, and the future
my uncle filters life through the signs of the zodiac and is always curious about birth dates and character traits
i keep my opinion about such things to myself

in the corner of my brother’s front yard stands a magnolia tree
its trunk and boughs are coated in pale green lichen
its crooked branches steadily offer baseball sized white blossoms of impossible perfume
all are too high for my reach
there is a large rock just beside the trunk that makes for a fine bench and from time to time i sneak away and sit there
such trees offer much in the way of ancientness and wisdom and I glean what i can

my uncle holds truth in the charts of stars
i in the trees

perhaps we are both crazy

swooping through
the shadowy spaces

of the narrow underpass
the crow came to rest

atop the fence
right beside me

delicate in its beak
the bird held another’s egg

tilting its head
for an instance

it regarded me
before hopping

upon the air
and was off

it that all there is to it?
the nonchalance of life

and death?  
there one moment
  
gone the next  
as everything spins

and turns
and beats

and breathes
into silence?

teeter
          as we do

                         upon tightropes
                         wishing for wings
                         or puppet strings

carom
           as we do

                         down lightless streets
                         impatient with prayer
                         to get us there

the azaleas
have yielded

to the peonies
heavy

with rain
they have

in turn
bowed

to the hydrangeas
who have next

nodded
to the magnolias

such a patient parade
such a sharing

of sight
and scent

she said
i am ready

for the end
of my life

i am prepared

the bald woman
with one breast

ran from the room
the jasmine scented ice scooped

upon the hot stones
proving too much

for her repairing senses
through the glass doors

of the sauna
we watched her

shaking her head
from side to side

holding the wall
for support

after a few minutes
she returned

the final bucket
of ice

was scented
with lemongrass

the bald woman
with one breast

closed her eyes
welcomed the heat

and whispered
yes

the ceiling is grey
as are the walls

and the rain
the sidewalks

and streets gloam
with the wild litter

of leaves
faded colors

corner into collections
gather at the mouths of gates

they brew in puddles
steep in the chill

of november
the reign of autumn

is over
winter waits

for no one
which makes these last notes

all the more miraculous

the church bells
sound the hour

but it is the leaves
we turn to

for time
watch closely

at the ghosts
and bones

of autumn
the final breaths

heavy with yellow
and red

we release
like all colors called

and collected
we release

the crows care little
for the mist

the snowmelt
or the palleted rain

they call
and carve the air

above the park
where do they go

after dark?
in their night silence

what do they think about?
elsewhere

something stirs
from its winter slumber

elsewhere
something uncoils

from its tight darkness
do not concern yourself

with the heavy details
of life

with the weight
of things

that sometimes swing
against you

find a place
with quiet light

and sing

the crows complain
of october rain

an autumnal fuss
they can’t sustain

the fox alights
from a dark stand of trees

and down
through the deep drifts

of snow  
it is a myth

of woodsmoke
and vermilion

and it stands silently
beneath the streetlamp

before being led away
by notes we cannot perceive

for our part
we turn hopeful eyes

to night skies
and cling to the promise

of unspooled mysteries
however

at times
we are so savagely illiterate

to the stories
in the stars
  
uncomprehending to the roles
and lines

of constellations

the fox all burnt orange brown and soot footed
sat there in the middle of snow field

she had been watching me plod
and scratch my way across the same icy white surface

suddenly she stood and sprinted up the switch back of our common trail and made the tree line

stopping twice she marked me just before disappearing into a patch of thawed trees and dirt

eventually i made my way over to where she had vanished and checked her tracks in the snow

as if they might reveal some greater mystery

do not bother god with your petty little prayers your world weariness and concerns

instead step outside and wander the woods

ponder the melody of swelling rivers

the chemistry of change within the maples and birches

kneel as one season yields to the next

god applauds the woman who builds her own church

the man who seeks his own salvation

the hummingbird
all function

and form
impossibly winged

and ricocheting
from one

cupped sun
to another

i stand
my ground

and imagine
the percussion

of its tiny heart
a muscle

the size
of a grape seed

then there it is
right before my eyes

lingering
for a moment

before nudging off
into this uncomfortable world

there is so much work
yet to be done

the hummingbird
all function

and form
impossibly winged

and ricochetting
from one cupped sun

to another
i stood my ground

and imagined the percussion
of its tiny heart

a muscle the size
of a grape seed

there it was
right before my eyes

the bird lingered
for a moment

and then nudged off
into this uncomfortable world

there is so much work
yet to be done

the leaves tried
to tell me

but i confused
their colors

the water tried
to warn me

but i misunderstood
the words

the geese tried
to guide me

but i complained
of not having wings

and soon
i found myself

alone

the man
silver-haired

and tan
was wearing

a crisp blue
oxford shirt

a kelly green
silk tie

pressed khaki pants
and perfect

leather loafers
he tilted

his head back
and calmly lowered

the headless body
of the raw fish

into his mouth
fresh herring

bellowed the fishmonger
with obvious glee

the mechanics
of the invisible

circle slowly
upon themselves

petals pressing
ever tighter

losing light
but gaining strength  

we watch
and wonder

testing the heavy air
so cautious

with it all
things thorned

and what
of the unseen?

do they come
to rest

in dust covered boxes
up there

on the top shelf
waiting?

the moon blues the snow

stones stumps and posts stand steeped in night fields

shadows form words to a silence that breathes deeply within

in the hearth the maple waits for flames to braid

each log will catch and ornament the air with twists of smoke and fire

all this until nothing is left

we destroy
but know nothing of real power

we repair
but know nothing of real love

the moon is a cloud




some                                     some
are rising                              are complex
and familiar                        concrete grey
white tipping                      with a heat and heaviness
off the top                            a dizzying effect
darkening briefly               that spits light and sound
to pour specificity              in an ever shifting distance





in the pale blue sky

the moon slurs
her words

plume like smoke
and feather fade

trace stitches
of stars unravel

black carvings
of birds

crease the netting
of trees

sunday morning children light
across the churchyard lawn

their grass stained laughter
lifts like leaves

the rain
with its Round words

said nothing
quiEt were the grey sheets

of the sky
the new green

of trees
the many bells

of this town
kept sIlent

even the wind
wholly wild

held its toNgue
but still we knew

(deathhyouareadarkandfunnydoor)

steep the stone
the gentle folding

of blood
and bone

remain here
and help her home

                                                                                     she will have her way

the rains
have returned

as have the parrots
that riot down

the evening streets
this morning

a hummingbird
ash grey

and the size
of a child’s thumb

floating between
the branches

of a flowerless tree
slowly

things have found
their way back

into focus
into some semblance

of routine
and order

but small cracks
and fissures remain

open invitations
for grief

to come
galloping back

(did you really think you would be rid of me so easily?)

(that this would last only a moment?)

(who do you think has been filling your dreams with shadows?)

the rains
have returned

as have the parrots
that now riot down

these evening streets
this morning

a hummingbird
ash grey

and the size
of child’s thumb

floated
between the flowerless branches

of a tree
              slowly

things have found
their way back

into focus
into some semblance

of routine
and order

but small cracks
remain

open invitations
for grief

to come
galloping back

                          did you really think you would be rid of me so easily?
                                                          that this would last only a moment?
        who do you think it has been filling your dreams with shadows?

there
there it is

that clip of wind
a smoother edge to the air

the braided fade the sky now holds
the ginko nuts are beginning to fall

their yellow leaves will soon follow
there is a silence to the stones

a quiet to the clouds
the birds sense it

and theirs is now a new arrangement of music
colors slowly carousel into corners

the clock has turned
and returned everything

there
is a garden

where
fifteen rocks rest

in perfect swirls
of white pebbles

there
is a garden

where
fifteen rocks rest

and this
is what

they say

there are days dark

pockets filled with pebbles
and worries

nights marked
with restless dreams

sometimes

the clouds
hold no clues

sometimes

the rain is filled
with riddles

then
a new light

then
the sky blue sky

then
you can see
and feel
for miles

there are days that are not easy

moments tethered to exhaustion and preoccupation

music muted within thick walls of gray

there are starless nights

stones that cannot seem to be moved


then new light arrives


the air cools to an easy breath

the delicate electricity that shakes the heart becomes weightless with wonder

the heaviness of what just was flashes and falls away

like the underwing of a red hawk passing beneath the soul of the sun

there are moments
when the rain bells

and pebbles
against the window

when the moon lifts
like the ocean’s only coin

we move
roomtoroom boxtobox

we move
dusttodust

should any heaven hold
both sea and sky

my mother
shall have one

my father
the other

there have always been
great stretches

of silence
eventually

the arrival
and departure

of possibilities
seep slowly in

something
that glows

into focus
steady

and strong enough
gently forming

and holding its pose
for a moment

or two
constantly repeating

the same message

yes
here is the thought

yes
here are the words

there is a light

there it is again

i reach for it

and hope it holds

it does

and i begin to walk my way out

of the darkness

there is a line
between

the songs
of love

and the songs
of grief


this is what the silence said


there is a line  
into out of

the horizon
of earth

and sea
and sky


this is what the silence did

si lence of snow

the for the how

be said ghosts un

too much so fold

There is slow ly.

there is no beauty
in their flight

a frantic choreography
as if taking to the air

for the very first time
twitching from one tree

to the next
but their color

such a giving green
and that breath of red

patched just beneath
each wing

says much
of their humor

their jocularity

will you have a look at us?
how the hell did we even get here?
and, really, who knew this would such fun?

there is no pleasure
in their harsh notes

even beneath the bluest skies
there is no beauty

in their flight
a frantic choreography

as if taking to the air
for the very first time

twitching
from one tree

to the next
but their color

such a giving green
and that breath of red

patched just beneath
each wing

says much
of their humor

their jocularity

will you have a look at us?
how the hell did we even get here?
and really who knew all this would be such fun?

the river
wrapped in a coat
of cold grey stones

slides
its icy lines down
through the mountains

the trees
long leafless
and now heavy with snow

are ever patient
for the moon’s return

this is the season
we grow old

this is the reason
we grow young

the river knows
as does the grey

of the rain
the dark windows

of the church know
and the confetti

of leaves wet
upon the cobblestones

he isgone

to ng ue ti pp ed      
                               in to the            
                                              in fi ni te

heis gone

these
are braided days

leaves delicate
weaves

of last color
quick ribbons

of snow
tangled

through the grey fingers
of trees

and tie themselves
to me

these days paint gray
each frame of film

dulled steel drains all color
from the sky

slate scrapes the skin raw
for what winter will wear

but wait
what was that just there?

did you see it?
the very tip of that cumulus kindled

a single note
of ignition and possibility

so take a deep breath
and remember

if you keep your heart open
something beautiful will step inside