Tonight

And I think if the world may end
where the moon light falls like snow
Let it end tonight so
so that I do not have to live through 

where the moon light falls like snow
and end even in our souls
so that I do not have to live through 
and live through and be through

And end even in our souls
At the end after the blue
and live through and be through
out in the snow we come into

At the end after the blue
that lives through our bodies
out into the snow we come into
where there is only you

that lives through our bodies
And I think if the world may end
Let it end tonight so
where it is only you

To My Son

When mom and I divorced

you stopped holding my hand

you stopped running into my arms

you stopped

Not because you were getting older

Not because you didn't love me

out of the coy corners of you eyes

or out of the little beginnings of a wry smile of hope

or happiness, or love.

but because suddenly at eight the world had

suddenly become a sad place

that at eight the energy coming off your fingers

coming off your eyelids

coming off the electrified tips of hair

had been snuffed out

had been closed like a house

on a street, in a city you

would never return to.

We try but end up doing nothing

but waiting for our lives to be over


Do you know I wrote two wonderful poems

filled with your brothers and was

waiting..waiting..waiting

not to write this poem to you.

To Cause to Glitter or Shine

Of the adventure we were mum

Of the sky we heard singing and checked in

Of the Japanese text we carried a handkerchief

Of morning we found something delicate

Of the months we resorted to amazement

Of the music we called for more fuzz

Of the others and the vagrants we were valleys and distance

Of the dandelions we were feeling haunted

The houses and the apartments lacked focus

On the skin travel sounded nice
Of the boys and girl circling in the atmosphere
like love swaying in all directions
we cleaned in-between the tip-toes
The rain fell and fell and fell
until the rain fell again and again some more
Of the kissing we kissed
Of the tiny messages there were volumes
Of the lovemaking laid the forms of poems.

New Letter

When they greet you

in the foreground
in the suburban

burnt out mornings
that only a dog skeleton

can absorb.
And they call you
by face and say,
"You are done
with 'you' poems!"

"With comical metaphors!"
"With lightness!"
Agree with them.
Tell them that
I am no longer sad.
I will write from metal
Of a hurrah
before charging
of all the things that fill
of all the things that I know
of the only thing I know.

Tomato

She is sick
She holds the tomato
that I have given her
from the garden.
She brings it to her nose
and smells it.
She rubs the brown
flecks of dust dirt
off until it shines
and hands it back to me

This Is Vaguely Somehow About the Poem

But we in our motes

(may I offer you some?)

paint the foreground

with pointed perfection

of the few glimpses

he had in Giverney

with autumn within shot

to tell us that this novel nothing

pleases the sawdust sunlight

amid the carnal comments

With Your Coffee

Do you prefer

the anticipation

of a snowball

A room with

or without a

fish tank

An Eden-like porch

with wicker

and Adirondacks

A long sleep

with the feeling of being

awake or a short one

after a day in a hot tent

in a sweatshirt

or the right book

forgetfulness

clever understandings

ice out in the universe

eavesdropping realizations

praying mantis entertainment

the dead with a suitcase of mist

or whatever you call it

three creams and two sugars

with your coffee.