Monday, March 9, 2015
No comprehension how the lone survivor
can be ignorance, how the ten-second commercial
can sell coconuts, how a fish-bone rapscallion
can curdle the milk and make the honey lament—
it would seem the sought-after rune, the one
cognitive gem that links letter to letter,
would be doggèd and lovely, have the precision of a grape,
the mainspring of an opal, the breechblock of a spoon.
The chasm is filled with a large whiskey eruption,
a Jack Daniel's device that dribbles swill on the booths,
the lone scarab, the resurrection of water,
fossilized in amber—a shibboleth of concordance
that marks twain on the floors of the once living,
the boy-blood on the news that is eulogized and lost.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Two shades of stubble here under my chin—
gray and brown— this local morning in the deep snow.
All around me are broken wires the squirrels roasted
themselves on in the overnight storm when everything’s
down and you realize how fragile the light is,
if you realize anything at all.
It’s impossible to draw a lesson from
every meager event—so little has happened this morning—
a sparrow passing, a car in the wrong lane—nothing
exceptional, just the movement of everyday traffic.
Even dressing lacks ritual.
You’re carrying out something unordinary
you know you have done before, you’re so well-behaved.
But this is different time, inborn, perhaps,
yet not instinctual like a sparrow pecking
a seed . . . but something you pass on to others and they
to you when you say good morning before coffee.