Clever with Chalk

 Remember the morning 

I came down and convinced 

Us we were dead?

Being too early

And too quiet to prove otherwise 

We believe it

And a greater hush came

Into the room

And together it grew stranger

As we sat and wondered 

What would happen next.

September 7, 2026

 

Sometimes in the jangle 

of the day

Are the words, I love you.

But what is the truth?

Being truthful?

Or was it the moment I let you down

The breeze stirs

 on top of the river

And blows on

The fish move faster 

in the current

Slack and then snap 

angrily at the darts

plopping in among the surface

Is this a memory?

A history of thoughts 

Dropped to the enemy

A ghost without

Its muscles its bones 

Nothing but a husk

And here we think

It to be—know it all

The last two days 

You have gone mad

And once again I 

Cannot help you 

Though I be still

Fishing—

Writing on this page

Flesh and bone 

and mostly spirit.

 Buy the Book

And

This One Too

Marked for Love

Look you

Marked for love

What pants

What sweater 

What blue space

Next to star

Hangs on you

What drapes close

And open revealing 

A kiss finally

Summer

Buds

Caterpillar 

Piano noise

Coming off the street

Seeds

How does one keep cool

Be more sure-footed

Be important

Ha,  what sound

From what foam

Bubbling from a stream

Laugh like an old man

Count the cats

And sometimes 

This is enough

Birds float by the sun

What sometimes

And, lastly, and all to well

What have I done

Fallen asleep 

Like everyone.

Roller Rink Sadness

I am forever forgetting

That these last few laps

Were pathetic. The disco 

Ball and swirling organ

Music has kept me off

My game. Will I ever

Make it back to one

Line of thought. Or

Will I continue on

this film loop? 

Tape slapping against 

the reel. One last round

You are still beautiful 

But I don’t play you anymore 

From Beautiful Locks

For seven miles we hoofed it

Chasing after a good idea
The waters stopped searching
For the ocean and puddled
I poured myself a mule
A wounded mule wiped
From beautiful locks.

What I poured myself
For seven miles 
Charm on a dog

Sugar-lined streets 

And a good idea
Were eyes prettier
Then the look
Of a sandwich
Grabbed at the hardware 

And then home to the snake-bite

Or a quatrain on love
Amber waves a mantra

Clear as the bottom of a lake
Where you and I were 

Charged with swimming.

Like the Buddhist

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 their dirge

Though their names

Be in it

But rather

I would like to think

Our secret pond

That one time

We swam

A car ride

For Chinese food

Or our beautiful walk

For coffee and ice cream 

The back and forth

Of just you and me rocking

Moving through it all

And to call it out 

As a blessing 

tragically blessed.

 

Dating the Days

Tell the shampoo girls 

That Sundays are best

For pumpkins

And the horse face boy 

Tuesday’s for thought

Monday’s monarch

Rests on a wave

Of noons moons

What days are left in

Leftovers Wednesday 

Wire and Thursday’s

Mote.  Fridays

Freelancing and 

Saturday’s note.

Speaking

 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.

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 lonely man holds his rug

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

Together washing away the letters 

Of their names

I am sorry for being this 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

With pink strokes on clouds

Beneath the descending day

The flurries of the whole 

Dampening continents

And 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.