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 our 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 with pizza. 

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.

On Record of Afternoons

It seemed strange we were

always in awe.

That someday we will

 want to know

the projections seriously arrived at.

A flourish of flowers 

against the pavement.

What may ruffle the tags

gleam across the mountain.

The cat changes position

and we are closer now.

Especially on the record of afternoon.

Surely we will have to arrange 

the table for lunch.

And ask for music to follow.

Say our sentences exceed

a large in parentheses colored wing.

Whispers on the water. 

Only a bowl of oatmeal lies 

between me and the moon

Seeing it again, it grows softer

It is coming out like the stars 

Come out oh magnificent cause

Now, in my new eyes. 

True North

 And to think there must be a source

 left unaware and responsible 

besides, who else, with the string of clouds

moves towards intermission.

It is time for us to be together

 to go to the screen.

 To get caught up 

in the fullness of the day.

No more to reckon 

in the empty house of Romantics.

One surveys the land and finds the grass

 is much taller over there.

 That this very afternoon is hot enough

 to muffle the exchanges

 between the wildflowers.,

 One stands for something,

each other,

at least something living.

To wait for the light 

to pass on into berries.

Or each time a hard aim

to open the book  

to the same page

the same passage and to send

only its strange encouragements.

New Century Poem

The seasons

beautifully involved, 

lovely like elevators, 

who never thought to get off

at the next stop. 

Who thought the party 

was always there.

The lamps were on.

The glasses arrange themselves 

in the green light. 

A familiar spirit 

changes into a hush 

on the hills in the evening. 

When the room darkens,

 and one can see no farther 

than the face in the window 

it is as if a century has passed.

People in the theater 

waltz out from their seats 

as the lights turn on 

and new ones waltz in.

First Fiction in Film

 I remember you were wearing purple

as the tangerine sun lit room

Accented the crochet. I was six.

The day continued.

 I stopped looking.

The orange cat was always around.

I ran around the table

The pictures capture that.

Also, you waving into the camera.

And teaching others to say hello.

To pose. To walk slowly.

To pretend to walk before

Stepping on to your plane

And flying home.

Organizing Flowers into a Bouquet

Under Wednesday's umbrella

We shape our eternal dress

Did you avoid trying to say that
Glowing in jars of youth.
Breathing out layer-cakes.
We've grown silent

In these last careful months.

The marshland of notebooks

Many remaining instruments
And the hint of citrus twist 

Our words into a particular curve.

This one here and that one there.

Is much of what it all comes down to.

Until stepping away we see 

A thought no one 

not even you

Knew you could think.