Earthbound and Inert

Look—up in the sky! 
The lunatic moon’s salivating, 

Spewing quicksilver- 
Lined trails of spit 

For all us snails 
To drool over before 

We get too phlegmy 
To take off likewise

Lickety-split. 

Athena's Owl and the Learned Swallows

Wide-eyed on edge 
Of red-tiled roof, 
The studious looking owl 
May not make out much 
In the late morning light, 
But one thing seems clear: 
These nesting early birds strafing it 
Till it vanishes have done their homework well, 
And can now return to that brooding business 
They so instinctively and abruptly left behind— 
It’s as if they knew 
Wisdom rests not in taking in 
What rears its head before us, 
But what to make of what 
Nests in the empty space 
Once that knowledge takes wing 
And flies away. 

(p)articles of absorption

rifle

                    (white-

washed

                    stone

wall)

cracks

                   (blood

red

wind-

                   flowers

                   seep

through)

Leave-taking

I read somewhere 
That ashes are the last 

Trees to welcome leaves, 
The first to let them go— 

In the meantime so brief, 
So breathtaking an interlude 

It bears repeating: The last 
To welcome them, the first 

To let them go.



 

Bankrupt

You wager the world would be no poorer 
Had it no poetry, though five will get you ten 

You’ll never get rich staking your life on it. 

Natural Selection

Seed, what on earth’s got into you? 

There you go rooting and taking off 
In the most ridiculous 

Of surroundings—say jammed 
Between some blooming sheer- 

Rock face or surfacing through 
A sea of noxious black 

Asphalt—never where 
I so lovingly sow you,

Like this nursery bed here. 
You know what? 

I think I’ll stop being so 
Goddamn caring— 

From now on, it’s every man 
For himself, like it or not. 

Shovel Leaning against a Graveyard Wall

After the cleansing downpour, 
I like to think the muddied pool 
Left in the scoop of the shovel 
Reflects on a clear blue sky, 
There in the sweet by-and-by— 

Where a spade is always a spade, 
No matter how 
Many times it’s been buried 
By upright citizens 
Covering up one more lie. 

Wounded in the Process

Nothing too insignificant— 
How even 

This minute sliver 
Working it- 

Self out, means 
To heal. 

Good Reads

The raucous bumblebee 
Makes such a rambunctious entrance, 

Buzzes round the cloistered 
Book-lined study, lights on 
A few select tomes, falls 
Silent before each one before 
Making its exit 

A high-keyed little masterpiece 
Of buzzing eloquence. 

Poetry Reading

Forget all that 
Huffing and puffing, 
Blowhard— 

When mind’s full 
Of nothing, volumes 
Of hot air 

Do not promise 
To bring the house down, 
So pretty please

Beware. 

In the Manner of Cavafy

Approaching the end of the multiplying
Line of somber burnt-out candles lengthening 
Behind him, he recalls their first light before 
Turning ahead to the diminishing 
Row of lively little lit ones waiting, 
All the while quivering himself 
And tries—how hard it must be 
To keep looking firmly ahead—to snuff out 
That still-flickering thought, the one
That will certainly engulf him 
Should he wilt and turn back. 

May Day! May Day! (Going through the Motions)

Though they may tell you otherwise, 
It’s not enough going through 
Each day as if it were your last— 

One of these days, 
You’ll have to live it.