At Five O'Clock

At five o'clock
I love the fog
that floats inside
the neck 
of my bottle
of beer.

March 14 2014

Frost Heaves

They were broken, broken,
so broken by the winter;
but roads were not the only things that suffered:
our own loves too, and friends' friends
and family; broken, ended,
heaved by frost and then let go
in the treacherous melt, salted wounds
that crumbled into nothing. In the parking lot
someone stood a warning post in the sinkhole:
don't drive here, you'll fall. One more piece of evidence.
Things fail; they fatigue, and we tire with them,
each blow weakening until our theme is only
how can we sustain? What exactly are we waiting for?

I will answer, says the echo memory.
I will answer in the language of a sudden scent
on a wind that promises languor. We are waiting for
the great unlocking;
we are waiting for our shoulders finally to fall.
We are waiting for the day we stand outside, shirtsleeved,
letting the breeze and sun dispute,
and feel the warm liquidity of tears that wash
what used to be frozen into the lively mud.
We are waiting for the frogs to sing
at nightfall.

March 13 2014

Wreckage

I think I'm turning into John Masefield. I should count myself lucky, if so.

The sea puts all at odds on shore;
breaks the fragile fences, makes 
all walls a mockery, and takes
the things we try to build away
to fill some other coast it must repay.
Life's a ruin, says the ocean;
Life's a ruin, says the shore;
Life is built upon the wreckage,
say the seagulls,
of the things you built before.

March 11 2014

Bird on Wire

Bird on slanted wire.
One flirt of wing, then stillness.
Can morning teach peace?

August 13 2013