Watch the course-grained fluid
trickle along the glass
passing through the kiss
to fall and land, finite
until none remain
Watch us build castles
great fortresses of pride
falling and crumbling
we reconstruct them
from the infinite to stand
Watch me sink, deeper, deeper
and Socrates draws figures
for me to recollect
or better yet
Jesus bends down to write
How many times
can I make this wrong decision?
(it can’t be a mistake
if I do it with such precision)
How many times
will I return to this same sadness?
(who knew thinking rationally
could be riddled with such madness)
How many times
must I long for something more?
(it hurts, knowing what I could’ve had
–it was offered me twice before)
I am tired of disappointment
and I am tired of resistance
(perhaps that is why I must preserve
these idealizations from a distance)
Now many times I wonder if I can
preserve the potential they claimed to see
somehow prove the metaphorical finger I’ve worn so long
isn’t the only thing the world will see of me.
I am a house with no one inside
but that sole inhabitant that years ago died.
With my ghost voice I called and invited you in
that someone might live in this house again.
But the visitors that come never stay
and these ghost gray lips grow grayer gray
till the day they are not heard anymore
though I still sit screaming behind the door.
The light shines through the shutters
revealing the yellow latticework
that is invisible in the daylight
and what if the shadow shapes of what is not there
are the outlines of this invisible world
available only to the waking few?
they feel the latticework on their face
now on their hand
and wait for some small shadow to climb it
a burglar in the night.
When she breathes a chilly breath
and folds in on herself
and her branches like arms quiver
and the leaves dance and shiver
When she wraps herself in a sunlight shawl
and wears a silver moon cap to sleep
and all is painted red and gold
and the leaves tumble from her hold
When she tethers the short daylight scarf around her neck
and her tears leak from cracks in the sky
then open your door, she is here
and welcome, welcome, Autumn my dear
Write write write
hasn’t this fight already been fought?
if I had any thoughts to write
maybe I could write when I ought
It was too much to gaze
upon the glory of God
All left in a reverent daze
Knelt our human skins, awed
But if they gazed instead at me
stunned and blinded, we who fell
surely would speechless be
at the soul inside the human shell
The rain on the windowpane
blurs the girl standing out in the lane
or the face in the window of the train
and the poet would sit here and feign
to contemplate the world’s pain, then — halt
look to a raindrop as to a grain of salt.
Is it not a slight madness
that we take this prescription sadness?
Perhaps if we had had less
of this rain we’d be glad — yes
and not mourn the sky’s vastness, as though every cloud
were draping the world in the blackness of a shroud.
Emily likened a book to a frigate,
but the mind too is its own vessel
Take me where you will Mind,
there is nothing at present for me out there.
Wouldn’t we all stay in Childhood if we could choose?
Instead we are trapped in reminisces, wishing
they hadn’t fooled us with the words they’d used
“growing up” for a person diminishing.
Sure, we are wiser, and not all adults are rotten,
but who doesn’t long for some previous self?
like we could step back into them, if only they hadn’t gotten
so maimed through the years
now sitting there
like shrunken skulls on a forgotten shelf