habit, hope, illuminations

A river to forget and another to remember

Here again every evening, like a ritual
I hear this ruckus of seagulls,
so far inland and no signs of rain.
I search for the meaning of this anomaly –
I’ve heard this primal dance predicts
some kind of mishap – a storm, perhaps
the ground suddenly moving underneath.
Equally violent and buoyant are
the games we play with our watches.
Trying to find in mythos an escape
and a healing, even though we know
Lethe only flows in the caves of Hades.
Yet we return again and again flying
to the planes of forgetfulness
looking for subsistence in leavings.


Ode to a nightingale

Lone bird
chirping in the night
what are you looking for?
Do you see how this dark
carries your song, sharpening
its sweetness in these moments
unpolluted by the cheer
of daylight,
or the violence
of countless flocking birds,
who peck at every offering.
I have seen the fire
that rages in your chest,
and what its like
to continue singing
when solitude is near.


Blind date

You wouldn’t know it from sitting across her
but her ravenous appetite is gone

something has happened,
on the banks of this frozen over canal,

she has come undone.
In the distance she hears herself,

her voice doesn’t quiver,
her perfectly manicured nails mock her.

Nothing is as it seems.

All she remembers are two ducks
stuck in a river of ice,

frozen while encircling one another.
Forced rituals of courtship,

unknown mouths splitting her head in two
and spilling the remains in the sea.

change, illuminations

For a young lady fond of sweet things -don’t stop

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How is it on some nights,
eyes open as if to a new world
and things appear almost by magic.
A portal had opened momentarily
to the old poet sitting by himself,
reciting a poem to this lady fond of sweet things,
telling her to never stop, that she lived in a world
that belonged to a child, crammed with treasures of exotic plenty.
Impossible not to feel chosen then,
walking next to a kindred spirit,
smiling to song and light,
for a moment remembering the cinema in it all.
These motions, one step after another,
of asking, seeking, and finding
wisdom, like hot air—
not empty but enabling a lifting.
Meandering home (so intimate, the act of matching steps),
a wise fox passed by.
So much easier to dismiss it as chance
had it not looked her straight in the eyes
as if to say- wait, have patience and don’t stop.