Forgetting Notes

I remember what happened 

in elementary school

even if you don't

Fiddles arrange like blood clots

The flutes futility stands

You hear, you always hear 

this is not quite enough

together we promise fullness

We promise the conductor 

Will play the drums

As the drummer watches

As the whole orchestra 

Carries on

We promise we will

Give you a sign

Even when we are dead

So as to make your life

A little less like

The dark void

Moving closer to oblivion 

But that is a hefty ask

Don’t you think

The day before the snow

Is sunny and the sun

Comes into the room 

And warms the cat

Where she is lying

It sits on the carpet 

In warm and bright 

Spots of the day

Here is the only promise 

The rest needs to be invented 

Poem constantly losing letters

There is so much to cover 

Like thistles over the inlet

One moment a fire rendezvous 

The next darkness in darkness 

In the heart of a tsunami 

A missing person is lonely 

In the heart of a hurricane 

The missing people

Of Tennessee cling to an ash

In the eye of a tornado

It is calm like a world 

Of missing people

Like strangers

Washing away the letters 

Of their names

I am sorry for this being weedy

And for the prickers 

Opening the side of your calf

Will nothing else suffice 

For this panorama

Or should we head 

Back to the search party

And the evening

Escaping into a small

And beautiful sea

The pink strokes on clouds

Beneath the descending day

The flurries of the whole story

Covering and dampening 

Rolls of oceanic upholstery.

The Current Stare of Affairs

It was a sound 

way off on the green lawn

A bank of birds

A signature somewhere

Like any line

Might be my last

I walked by the panzer 

A base of sunlight 

Blinded the swaying 

Willows in all directions 

I was counting 

But then lost count

I became hungry 

Like a ghost 

Must feel hunger 

I was alone 

And suddenly 

Like a boat knocking 

Against its moorings 

I was knocking 

And knocking and knocking.

Ah, Sincerely

The Searchlight across

The swell of the river

And no compass

Articulates this lesson

Nor during a time for trees

Are things again

Like themselves

The bells are silent

And, what am I to say?

It is better

In the darker morning

How funny and kind

Sent me a letter

What magnificent theory

Puddles on a blonde road

fulfills the patches of ponds

Of its rounded edges

Up against a sunset color

Intelligible and violent

As a dream suddenly

presses its hand into the rain

Thinks Summer’s long thoughts

Layers tied to happy people

In a flea market photograph.

Morning to Dew

The stars grow larger

Into a beautiful shape

Just like the way

Other things happen

Rushed or needling

Like an angry note

From someone

That’s been drinking 

You see what inhibits us

Is this lining of wilderness

Compromise, 

How the rest

Of the universe

Seems to float by scientifically

I almost feel sorry for you

Suddenly quiet

After checking the mailbox

A modest and exact play

And I hear I could’ve added

A lifestyle, a detour to the mood

But I am usually quieter

When at my desk

I moved to a dark place

To write this or that

My sole worry is in definition

Lest the words 

Lose their heat

And fail to explain

I want them 

So we can hold them 

Hold them up to the light

Until their unwearing 

Until their strings

Become permanent 

And until like a sentence

I read you.

The music will still be perfectly wonderful

It outlives our letters 

simply there against 

the thrashes of loneliness 

among the check out counters, 

wildly spaced 

like the words in a diary. 

At any moment, 

it goes blindly into the living world, 

slender, correct and then 

vanishes like pleasure. 

It is the neighbor of memory. 

It is undependable like a relative. 

It is cloaked in lucidity 

or worn again and again 

like a favorite coat, 

we are embarrassed to voice it

in short sleeves. 

It fills the corner in light. 

It is heavy like iron. 

No one expects it. 

It is not for government use 

Sometimes it is a beautiful 

knock on our door in the evening.

It is vivid like the horizon 

in Rhode Island. 

Ah, my great love. 

You are the sapling 

that I am afraid to disturb. 

You question me 

about the weather 

continuously 

and I am always well 

meaning but misguided.

There is something 

purely green about you.

Like a seabed

you are abundant

and ready for company.

No one wants to extinguish you

you are attractive like

the unexpected,

which time and nature 

has given a twilight hue

honestly for the better.

You Spent the Hour Singing

We have reached

automatically 

the beautiful part 

of the hot day, 

just as we expected

happily driving deep

 into song or a room 

made comfortable 

by open-ordained freshness. 

The medicine 

was mistaken

to be actually

Air flavored with lavender 

silent eyes.

As we prepare

longer cadences 

in the moment 

that draws close 

to the sensible 

border of our darling 

and masterful hands.