Ah, Sincerely

The Search light defines

The Swell of the river

And neither a compass

That Articulates

This feathery Lesson

Nor this time for trees

Are things again

Like themselves

The bells are silent

Like blueberries

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

Naps, thinks Summer’s

 long thoughts

Layers tied to happy people

In a flea market

Of photographs.

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 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.