Like the Buddhist
I do not believe
in the afterlife
but on Sundays
When the bells ring
in the lonely town
of Leverett
And there are
Those I know
Burried nearby
I stop to hear
Not the dirge
of the dead
Though their names
Be in it
But rather
I would like to think
Our secret pond
That one time
You and I went
A car ride
For Chinese food
Or our beautiful walk
For coffee
The back and forth
Of me rocking you
And listening to
the shorter softer
Pearls of sound of breath.
Tell the shampoo girls
That Sundays are best
For pumpkins
And the horse face boy
Tuesday’s for thought
Monday’s monarch
Rests his mave
On noons moons
What days are left in
Leftovers Wednesday
Wire and Thursday’s
Mote. Fridays
Freelancing and
Saturday’s note.
How one returns from heaven or honey
It’s pains how sticky
the farmer, driving his empty
truck through the beautiful
maples of spring, never gets to the telling
of it. Especially as the sage sways
He never gets to the telling of it
Even the way you look up at me
Late in the evening right before sleep
With your eyes that I cannot read
In the gray blue essay of yours
knowing I do not stand a chance
In your ache
We cannot keep silent
We cannot keep silent
In hours and in days
How easy one cannot say
How one returns from heaven.
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
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
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.
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.
