i built a new corner
and walked straight into it
left the paint on the floor
drying
held my arms high and my head straight
buried the forgotten
forgave the remembered
worshiped nothing
but silence
and the tenacity
of trees
throwing spring green buds
into air
like so much
confetti
squirrel fight
dove coo
blue jay belligerent
.
skin soaking up sun
anti mirror
wide smile
prismatic
.
desiderata
forgotten
.
and she walked
the center line
straight past the pond
of forgiveness
.
the right thing
is almost never
the easiest thing
and i watch you
doing everything
the hard way
taking root
in the furrow
of new growth
this morning the sun
strode straight past
the center of longing
we’re both here
(or there)
dawning
…
nineteen years later
that’s what we call it
not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven
two words
three digits
two towers
four planes
thousands
of
mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends
not statistics
falling
from
the
sky
not dates
or where were you’s
just whole hearts
in odd numbers
each one
the only necessary
evidence
of love
::
.
.
.
morning mirror and happenstance
pulling hope down at the corners
of a month meant for introspection
snow blows sideways against a window
curtained
a sparrow fights for survival
everyone, everywhere
arguing about books
and this is silence
holding tight
to a morning
short on light
showing up
as always
never quite
arriving
.
is buried in alaska
i know this because
you told me once
sitting on a square picnic table
beneath a dry dark sky
lit with acid green borealis
cassiopeia and orion
the only witness
to a wedding meant
for other people
another time, another place
blah, blah, blah
you get the picture
just a far off
long gone
atmospheric memory
rippling light and music
to lovers in a land
we’d only dreamt of
we watched in silence
for hours
those hours,
cradling minutes,
the quiet,
bone cold
seeping up
through cheap
cracked boots
and hol(e)y
handmade
mittens
with all these unwrapped gifts knocking at my ankles
and the color of contentment dripping down walls
there are words for almost everything
in the center of the room
but in each corner
it’s all dust and whispers
poised to destroy and bent on feeding
there is doubt in a vase
shedding sheer pink petals
and avarice growing roots
along white baseboard
the light is full, and golden
drawing pictures that pretend and
puncture actuality
as my fingers grow gnarled on a keyboard of instruction
poised for promises and platitude
never rendered
outside, the wind is howling
and still,
i am yours
.
.
.
seventeen years later
that’s what we call it
not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven
two words
three digits
two towers
four planes
thousands
of
mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends
not statistics
falling
from
the
sky
not dates
or where were you’s
just whole hearts
in odd numbers
each one
the only necessary
evidence
of love
::
.
.
.
there will always be days
stretched tight
by the too dry skin
of living
there will always
be evil
rubbing shoulders
with light
always be witches
dancing circles
at night
always a cloud
blotting out
the gold sun
always loss and possibility
mixing chance
in roiling ocean
it doesn’t have
to be enough
or even
filling
warmth is the illusion
of life
parody is pure
in the blossom of sight
and green things grow
from the cracks
in black ice
.
.
.
suddenly
there is all this color
all this light
shining green through
blue glass
and
it seems absurd
to think winter
equals hibernation
but i awaken
and there it is
a new year
that did not exist
yesterday
.
.
.
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