Monday, September 28, 2015


Not a chance

he ever will stand straight

again, my leaning tower,

my listing, sinking ship,

my stuck in the rut stage coach,

my train wreck.

Those perfectly vertical

days are history.

Oh they were sweet! 

Remember how we stood 

before that judge straight 

as two cypress trees, vowing 

fidelity for better and worse

(through unimaginable 


standing still, unbendable, 

reaching as if our strength would last 

for centuries, as if we were more 

than what we are--bodies that list 

to one side before they fall 

to the ground and blow away 

like flour dust.

After midnight

After midnight, I think of him 

thrashing on the ground

and I long for him to go

without farewell 

without a plan.

I wish him to step into the plane 

and sit his tall self into a wide chair

by the window and watch

the bay disappear 

under the clouds 

and watch the clouds 

form a bed 

just for him.  

I wish him to drink a cold beer 

on his way to that other realm

where there is only one 

season and it is spring, 

where there are only arrivals 

no departures, 

where he will be whole again.