Poetry

Poem, 3/15

I’ve unraveled.

the point from now becomes

a process of raveling, reconnecting myself

with my self’s responsibilities.

it’s a rock in Pinnacles, a point past which

I can no longer go

this time. my boy, my man,

you are everything in the world to me

and what a world we have

yet to make. ps, today I heard

the flapping of a bird’s wings.

Poem, 8/28

At the end of Provincetown,

the end of the Cape, I and my lover

begin another long vacation.

Seven years have passed.

 

An adolescent has motorized his skateboard

with a friction engine, as might be found in a toy.

As he is rolling down the hill towards us,

I ask myself, Is he storing, or releasing?

 

The viscosity of our history: At what point

does perpetual motion belie its own progress?

Poem, 12/15

it’s late, i’m older now,

time to sleep alone, off to bed alone —

but not alone, not alone.

my mind gropes for clarity,

for moments of singularity,

each seeking for their own,

for his own, for her own.

i only ever want to develop, to hone.

sharp pangs ache my heart,

but i’ll just pour it into my art,

and create a visual home,

a place all my own, not alone.

Poem, 11/22

the tallest tree on the street

gives rise to the rise in the hill

lends height to the upward slope

and is cutting into our basement floor

and will be cut down this afternoon.

the landlady’s excitement is no match

for the snatch of crows that this very morning

were enjoying their perch. human ego

is no match for nature. she will be here

long after we are gone.