new moon

the sky is empty, and while the new moon

is covered by the low clouds, unseen

it draws up the waters within you

the shadow of what is near

obscures what is far, still

it draws up the waters within you

to be deprived of such a companion

it could make a strong man weep,

--how much more so a weak one?

in these years, the darkness unlit

lays heavy on the streets and houses

how are we to navigate the dark,

without the good proof, and temerity,

of a light that disregards,

the lien of the night?

xxxxxi.

between the beat of drum—space

this footstep and that one: a question

the edge of silence,

and the shadow at the edge of the light

I don’t know if you’ll make it home

but I hope so.

xxxxx.

across the tundra,

thunder in the mountains

the sea rolls

black and angry, still

the trees crack

the sky—bare and dark

your hands are sails, you feet

an arc

carry two of everything

in your soles,

until you come again

the light burning high above the city

and low by the docks,

the soil of All possible Russias—

caught in your socks,

upon the girder, walk

and the doves will do the flying

the city is just a skeleton,  

but it will watch, living

--the old days are dying.

xxxxix.

Marc Chagall died in 1985

and it makes me happy

to see—

after the blue windows went

up in the cathedral, and the man in his hat

and the woman in the dress floated

past the village,

the grey green hills fade

into the smoke—

by then, the world was

open, once more.

xxxxxviii.

              there is no help

coming, not for you—

not for anyone,

no siren ever sang,

             before someone

had come within

touch—

of the fall

I would fall through the floor,

if I could,

gravity, the bitter handmaiden

of illusion, carry me

through the tile—

I would give all my summers

for one fall, ending in flight.

xxxxxvi.

don’t

            don’t

don’t tell me

            that

don’t tell me

that,

you—don’t tell me

that you—

must it be—that

must we

            become

if we

are to receive

what—

            --if it was promised

must it be that

to receive what

we were promised

must it—

don’t tell me that you must go

go—

xxxxxvii.

Rome crackles as it burns—

I squeeze the colors onto a plastic lid

and spread the mountains of home

onto the side of my bookshelf—

the finance text lies open

on the couch—which is worn

and nonsdescript,

in it’s softness.

on a whim, I halo them

and tell her what I am doing

I worry for the lights across the canyon

and the whisper of the freeway

as the cars rush south
--the frailty of the edges

I confide in a stranger,

and for a moment glimpse

with confidence—
what might have been.