Poem Absent of Titles

There is so much to cover 

Like thistles near the inlet

One moment, a rendezvous fire

The next darkness in darkness 

In the heart of a tsunami 

Is a missing person 

In the heart of a hurricane rather

The missing people of Tennessee 

Gather around Steven’s jar.

I am still a tiny word off.

In the eye of a hurricane 

It is calm 

It belongs to a world 

Of missing people

And each one thinks

Of the many worlds

Round upon a hill

Of green flecks and shadows

Where they have misspelled a name

I am sorry for being weedy

And the pickers that have ripped

Open the side of your calf

Will nothing else

Make up this panorama

Or should we head 

Back to the search party

One remembers the evening

Escaping into a small

And beautiful sea

Knowing this how can you trust 

The embers of any one of us

A warm pocket beneath the boats

Not really missing at all

but rather becoming absent

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 tank 

A base of sunlight 

Blinded the Willows 

I was reminded 

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 asleep 

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.

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.