distance

sometimes the heart holds itself
a little ways apart from longing
as one might hold back from a
whorehouse: fascinated, separate.
inside the gyrating bodies,
exposed, connected, represent
not longing itself, but the idea of it
to one unacquainted with longing.
its near neighbors: the saloon of grief,
shadow-robed patrons heavily drinking,
the throbbingly bright casino of loneliness,
without windows and without clocks.
but loneliness is not a casino
so much as a well-kept house,
sparse and swept and waiting.
grief is more wilderness than barroom,
and longing (some of us know)
has little to do with the flesh.

departures

empty chairs hold themselves still.
quiet gaps in conversation
wait without speaking to be noticed.
in any given moment,
lapsed circles hold together
by miracles of social integrity
when each moment they should
burst apart into glittering dust.
the moon perceives it.
(see? her mouth, a perfect o.)
how often have we carried on
in the midst of mourning? of loss?
what secret strengths
within the fragile heart
work progress through the nights?
what blood pumping onward?
how often have we parted
and found the long way back
to one another,
if only for the weekend?
these sightings stave off separation,
as if it will never happen.
and why not? some connections endure.
we meet our former selves
rising up in the mirror
each day before the sun,
as if to say, i knew you once
and i will not forget it.

again and again

these colder waters i must press through
much like the warmer ones before them,
much like the loose soil that came before that,
much like the hard earth that came before that.

each nod of approval or of forgiveness
was rehearsed a thousand times at school,
was rehearsed ten thousand times at home,
was rehearsed and rehearsed and is natural now.

each time we dance, the humming room hums
for all the men in all the shining leather shoes,
for all the history of songs and shoes and dancing,
for anyone with ears and feet. for us. she hums for us.

some dogs you know believe in reincarnation
and have seen it all before. they will let you know
by the sympathetic eyes and by the sidelong look
and by the bedside snuffling when i have gone away.

over the last rise

we assumed we were alone, and by “alone” we meant
only that we had come such a long and weary way
and had expected to catch a glimpse of some pale sea,
shining only for us. that’s what we meant by “alone.”
but arriving was something else. unexpected, like a trap.
instead of wilderness we found wheat and fruit trees.
instead of adventure: cultivated lawns, domesticated dogs,
a lived-in look. wandering, we found ruins of carnival rides.
a peeling, hollow cinema. some fire-rings and trash.
we had not got into something new, something unseen.
rather, having fled the decaying civilization of our forebears
we seemed to have cycled round into the wagon-ruts
of its antecedent, one they or someone else we knew
had once escaped by the skin of their teeth
and in the nick of time.

hospitality

i remember the night we fixed dinner at my place
i was still living alone in that four-person flat
the one where people moved in and out so often
there were always forgotten dry goods tucked away.
so there i was, raiding the cupboards, brainstorming
how to cobble together a decent meal for both of us.
“rabbit,” you said. “alley.” i looked, and there it was.
what i remember best was looking back at you, frozen
with half a smile, holding your breath i think. timeless.
you were beautiful. i realized that fact afresh today,
up another alley towards another house, where i met
that same rabbit. we both stopped, we both stared.
and i knew that you and it were the same in my mind,
the melting eye of youth mixed with fear of gods and
of society, the quivering thrill and hesitancy running
through your veins, your coats and whiskers and bones
more fragile and more wise than any i have known.
soo min said you live in the moon (or in the moonlight,
perhaps she meant), always making rice. she whispered
it carefully, scrunch-faced and leaning close. i laughed,
but having seen you since by moonlight i understand.
i must make you dinner again, when both of us have
finished these days of hollow yearning and responsibility,
have reached the end of our grown up selves, have found
our ways back to the city where we both were young.

givens

for you, the branches
that shine silver at night.
for you, the silent
understanding between
rabbits, the keening
among the coyotes
back and forth until
we couldn’t pretend
to sleep any longer
and drank tea together
in the dark until dawn.
for you, the strawberries
burning along the path.
for you, the knuckle vines
thrusting themselves
so tightly into the brick
that my landlord says
i had better not bother
with cutting them out,
better to leave them be.
for you, the birds that fly
determinedly through
shopping malls.
for you, the little waves
handed from swell to swell.
for you, eight children
swinging themselves far
into the humid heaven
through clouds of insects
on a wrist thick rope,
then screaming murder
as the pendulum returns
and they are hanging
above the languid
river’s flat embrace,
then falling falling cold.
they are taking turns.
they are timeless, wise.
they are from me for you.
i wanted to write this all
down, tightly bundled,
so that it would be
here when you need it,
but i haven’t captured it.
not all of it, not yet.
there’s still something
i don’t know how to say.

tour

here, on our left, a stack
of bones older than recorded history,
just to provide some perspective.
notice their color, which is neither
white nor yellow but brighter
and more subdued than either one.
through this door, we see
the birthing room: stainless,
antiseptic surfaces garlanded with
the soft nuances of mental association.
youth looks back on this last cape,
visible only a little while
on the outward journey
but forever memorable to mothers
and therefore somehow to a child.
just behind me, a wall of icons
shows progression of religious thought
from totems to ethical maturity.
in particular, note the influence
of consumerism on forms
and construction materials.
scholars suggest the abstraction
apparent in most of the later pieces
reflects a repudiation of mammon
common among high-level moralists.
as we pass through the next room
we encounter the framed window work
of irving yerlin along the far wall,
looking out on the lower east side,
added as a permanent fixture in 1992.
it was yerlin who said, famously:
“what is art except a picture
of a place we’ll never really get into?”
and, “i need my frames.
a frame tells me what’s important,
where to unleash my attention.”
from here, please feel free to explore
the grade-school refrigerator pieces,
multimedia room, seasonal exhibits,
and period dish collections
at a walking pace. painted lines
along the floor lead through
each gallery and towards the next,
bringing visitors at last unto the end,
which is the sea.

pressed

this mean old world has never known the like of me:
i am wearing grooves into its streets and hearts and
living rooms, ten thousand pairs of bun prints left
on couch cushions and theater seats fading quickly,
a thousand thousand fingerprints smudged darkly
onto the looking-glass memories of mumbling minds.
these fade more slowly, if at all, some impressions
lingering as if received by wet cement. certain times
i feel trailing behind me the rippling wake of ribbons,
curlicues of asphalt, turf, classrooms, curricula vitae,
the surface shavings of a chiseled life heaped high on
the twin banks of my passage. how does it appear
from space, this furrowed skein of life and longing?
i want to know only because i am so tired, so worn,
myself the blunted fretsaw blade now humped with
age, shiny still but smooth and unable for much longer
to hold a serviceable edge. it would be nice to know
that God and passing stars and astronauts might even
see the end results and smile, themselves somehow
marked by the facile designs and fancy footworkings
of this ragged bag of bones and brains. that would be nice.

those who serve them are like them

these household gods watch me closely:
the beady-eyed wooden one in charge
of herbs and salt crosses her arms,
the smile on the god of apron-strings
seems forced, the fat one sits and sighs
as if in preparation for some long ordeal,
some slow march up mountain passes
behind wagons that will break and bind.
on the one hand, they are uncertain
of their potential outcomes. on the other,
they have known the holy stones at the
top of the world – from these they came,
and from the great trees beside the sea.
they came unto this house by many roads.
they make me nervous in their austere
experience, unapproachably wise and waiting
for some unknown mistake (the exact details
of which they will not mention to me).
at times, in the morning while my coffee
steams, i wonder whether they really wait
in wrath and disapproval or whether, like me,
the hand-on-hip posturing serves as a sheath
of coping, wrapped tight around those friendless
ones who have themselves been severed
from the standing mountain and from the
ancient oaks, still lithe in limb and growing.
perhaps they mourn. perhaps they grieve.
and then these moments pass and i step stiffly forth
from hearth and home to judge the world.

mixtape

maybe this time the soft rhythms crackling
inside of my head, back where it’s dark,
can come out ungarbled, untangled.
hidden questions asked in silence have
always wound up garish in the light of day.
each reflection became an arrogant pantomime,
lisping forward, wheezingly, to frighten children.

but. this audience will perhaps be different.
a single petitioner waits outside and has waited
rather a long time, rather without agenda,
rather unafraid. and. i too am different now,
after all that love of loss and loss of love.
look: just do this. don’t overthink it.
expect nothing – less than nothing – and wait.