Poems will be back in March

going on a hiatus

unrequiting

Her smile superimposes the burgundy scuff on my shoe.

I cannot tell you what hopes it transcribes,

measuring the distance between her feet and mine,

not wanting to grow.

Eraser Dust

The love I had written for you has yellowed in the rain

I left it by the window, and autumn has come.

I never did find a stamp—

the space I had so carefully filled with your address

has lost itself with the envelope, long missing.

The paper spine is bent, worn

and insensible; the dog-eared corners,

creased into the ink, have become brittle:

It does no good to keep as a keepsake,

not anymore.

I have folded into my bags a ream

of crisp, unlined, printer paper—

I am nowhere without a pen.

In the lines she will read

gazing in my eyes

little will resemble

that scuffed-up bundle of pages

torn from a notebook.

There will be no nervous, broken bits of lead

(those terrible mechanical pencils

never could last);

no smudged words, no careless hand;

and even, perhaps,

no long line of mistakes

to hide in the trail of eraser dust.

REWRITE: Sandcastles

I built this castle on the rock of my isolation

on the rasp of stone on stone.

Only this forges my conviction;

in this I steel my cold faith.

I laid fortifications on solitude,

lonely citadels in seclusion:

my great battlements of exile.

Here alone I bear this adamantine chain;

Here alone reigns the rule of this certainty.

You came from the desert,

locusts and wild honey.

You told me you had seen mountains erode,

cities turn to salt—

and cracks form in the veils of those who would not see.

You told me that the firmest rocks become shifting sands;

that the days would come

where I would find uncertainty in my certainty;

and discover myself nervous and afraid

in the simplest acts of not being alone.

So you have told me—

but always I am the unbeliever.

original here

REWRITE: Tapping

It does not rain clean here
like it does on the roof of my mind:
It only taps lightly on my car,
the scattered showers of a landlocked city.
It drizzles, uneasily, against the drawn windows,
muddy streaks in its wake.

It does not resound like the torrents
of my memory, the cold rivulets
dripping from my clothes
chilling through my hair
the numb outline of my skull.

When it falls here, it ceases—
there is no patter to pitter
me my soft way through the night.

I gained my feet and inches in a city that rained;
in my own time I need return,
lest the hinges on that door rust—
oh, the rain tapping in your ears
the rain tapping on your skin.


original here

Walk

I do not know if it is the movement or the action,

that finds me walking.

My mother was a cricket; my father a cicada

The world passes a drilling through one ear

and comes out a chirp the other.

The mottled wood of the community trees

glows yellow in the lamplight;

the wind mutters in the branches above me;

the heavy tires of a car roll home.

The feel of bark against my skin

reassures me.

The stars do not shine often in this city,

But tonight the dim glow of the sky

fades its way through the cover of clouds.

If I squint, I may make out

what might be a sign of something.

Lonely

Are you there?
Sorry, sometimes—sometimes you know I
Yes.
Yes, sorry, sorry I just stumbled a little, I just wanted

Mm. Yes.
I know.

I have washed the paint from the walls with sand—
it has gotten into everything.
I promised to weather it, I realize;
but it pricks my skin
and I have not slept for days.

My mother’s jade rests warm and green
with all the hearts of those she has touched;
When I rise to meet the bleary morning
my gaze will not change the hue of my own.

Something

I want to tell you something in the way that one tells the truth.

Old friend, you flit like belief in the river god—

your lip-curling heart besmirches your passing life.

Your courage lasts like the relapse

and your conscience only the involuntary shuddering

of a historical kindness.

Do not blame circumstance;

its blame does not regard you.

We know, how you feel yourself alone

right hand holding your left,

but do not deem to say

that this is why day after day after day

you take those snips out of your soul

with that small pair of origami scissors.

Take those wandering eyes home,

bathe them in saltwater and white vinegar.

When you wake, in the afternoon,

fashion yourself a face

in the residue of your tears.

Bone

Rest your jaw.

The bone you have ground yourself down gnawing

will outlast your night.

Bury it, submerge it in your fecund sorrow

soil of your body,

and let the weeds grow over.

When you return, for an age gone by

perhaps the capsule preserved,

your selves exhumed, the itch of forgotten failures,

by then will no longer scratch at your soul;

perhaps it will not have been,

(when the memory no longer punctures you)

a pain worth keeping—

a time worth yearning.

Skipping Stones

What we have found is only a platform for the sea:

The pebbled sand of the beach

A cliff so worn one does not realize

The mountain beginning

The clouds do not descend with us

down the steep steps.

The pale blue sky embeds itself

upon the soft mottled blues of the water—

warm between your feet.

Come skip stones with me on the ocean

Your mind, made flat and smooth

grinding against the world,

skim it low across the surface:

You cannot hear the splash

above the crashing waves.