grapes.

grapes-- filmed and dusty,
heavy. I picked one, again--
still sour.

... (II)

Two thumbnails to clear the brain-space. Not stunning... possibly necessary.

....

The hours that aren't--
strung too-well together
but hang, low and grey
under my brow-- dull.
The days that end and start,
not particularly clearly
the shadows syncopated
on the changing tempo--
I must be rushing in a circle.
The world spins--
I see the same things,
blurred.

---

Something,
in my skull, stretching
pushing hard against the bone.
Another thing, in a full place
can only exist heavily--
is now waking from the pressure.

cavalcade.

cavalcade.

scatter! fragments—
a clatter and sparkle,
ashes—rise!
up from stamping feet.

oh, sun—set!
yes and, sun!—rise.

if the sun rides the moon’s face
and makes backdrop of the darkness

–the shadow uncurls, slowly
and saunters under the trees, untroubled—

shouldn’t we dance—
tell me!—shouldn’t we saunter?

aren’t your teeth the moon of your smile?
—the dark center of your eyes—
a cool and restful place? away from the heat!

what are we?— ruins and sunrise.
what are we?—dusk and cathedrals rising.

what are we! the joyful mourners
of the thing that didn't die.

Fluid Dynamics

Fluid Dynamics

We come to most people an echo
free-falling
until we collide with the hard places
in them, and bounce back--

but I went through you like water
rushed over your precipices
and pooled in your hollows--

was nothing but flowing.
Now I've run your course,
I find you in my currents,

but I wish
that I could hear you
in the shape of my voice
ringing over the peaks.

...

I could tell one story,
forever. Hold it up
in my head, and
chase the sparks
across the hours--

eventually,
as much world
as I'm given
would twine
its facets.

Mountain Climbing in Beijing

Mountain Climbing in Beijing

No mountains to climb, here.
Pass over the sidewalk,
heart leaping on every swell
in the pavement.

Sometimes- a break in the buildings
or a cut-- the snaking canal,
exposes the edges
of the crowd.

On the pedals of his bike
he rises, cresting
the sea of heads--
a sudden hillside, but already
fallen to pumping knees and rubble.

In the middle of Red Square
too much pavement to fill
even with my gaze.

But, up on the bridge-- I'm tired,
not used to climbing, anymore
I lean against the railing.

The sun dissolves into smoke
settles, red, across everything-- the avenue
that runs straight into the plains
which spread, flat, to the horizon
and circle the city.

Due west, a long smudge
peaking heavy against the haze
dark and definite, if far
not out of the eye's reach--
not too far to rest your gaze on,
strong enough to push up the sky.

a beautiful corpse...

which is to say-- a little bit of sound and fury, signifying nothing-- except, perhaps that it is very, *very* hot...

... I had an instructor once refer to this sort of poem as "a beautiful corpse"-- a pretty thing, without much life in it. And it's how I always think when I'm writing without a specific direction in mind. But sometimes you have to write a poem to figure out what you ought to be writing about...


Pressure Cooker.

Too many cherry tomatoes,
says my neighbor,
so I took some in to work.
Yeah. We're all sort of doing the green thing, now.

If it weren't so hot outside...

The sky is glowing white
and the dust on the asphalt
silvered.

You never walk alone here--
there's always the sun.

Sheeting through the windows
to set the tabletops ablaze
and kindle the carpets.

and the finger-prints on the glass door
throw rainbows onto the brick.

In the glare--
on the corner
every head is haloed
and every shadow's long.