turning

there, at the soul’s edge,
some green creeps in, pale new leaves,
a froth of lilac.

what you said

words, like fruits,
may be slowly peeled,
each bite held in the mouth
a moment before passing within –
the grace of yours a solemn gift,
a banana eaten in the sun.

cinema

our upturned faces
echo phantoms flush with
muted turgid light.

breakfast

the year’s second half
cracks open like a promise,
slips out from its shell.

coastal town

folks who don’t live nearby
will talk about colors and moods
as if the sea were a person
dressing up for special occasions,
as if there were some way
to understand or befriend it.
they have never known
the sudden acts of god upon the waters,
sometimes far out,
only a shrimpboat crew for witnesses.
these things happen;
the sea is only a place.
or, if a person, only that kind of
tired woman married a lifetime
to an angry man given to drink.
too thin and spare to do much but get by,
she has become someone else’s canvas.
the tourist-poets spin out coffeeshop verses
without ever having waded out,
hitting the reds and the sea bass for hours,
swaying with the breakers’ suck and slap.
it undoes something inside a man
to know the water like this.
driving home i want to tell them,
the ocean is not your mother,
is not some neighbor or friend,
can not be boiled down
to some lover you wish you had.

my walk home

flush with the recent purchase of books
waiting heavily and cool in their wrappings,
i descend into the pavement’s brightness,
down into the exhaust and sweat of traffic
and smoke from grilling at the taqueria.
every pitcher bought earns a free cinco tee,
and the al fresco crowd is getting friendly.
and then i have rounded the corner,
pushing through quiet splashings of arabic
in the alley behind al tarboush, where old men
drink tea and grow older, smoking.
and then i am jiggling the deadbolt,
throwing my hip against the sunbaked backdoor,
bursting into the kitchen in time
to turn off the oven.

again

The doors of our youth
open soundlessly and wide;
May brings memories.

i had forgotten about the weather

huffing with aggravation across town,
a grand dame perpetually out of sorts
who still goes to all the parties still stalks
frigidly off with sighings that do not end:
her manner so obviously offended,
rushing elsewhere and hopeful I would follow,
conciliatory, appreciative at last.
perhaps this is why she moved with such
exaggeration on the day we dug out
the compost heap and readied the garden.
i had forgotten about the weather
and the way it runs this tin can town.
i was only watching you.

paint

waking up i realize
as if for the first time
the color of my bedroom walls.

on a short night
dreams stick around
a few moments after sleep has gone.

tired phantoms fade
out into the pale celery
brushed here by some careful tenant.

enough

my two hands have a texture
to match the roughhewn world
i notice them today holding
onto one another
and then –
these golden ones gracing
and gracing and gracing me
with hellos
greater than the sounds of the sea
softer than the night breathing
across childhood dreams.