Find joy in the little things:
the glint of rust on flagpoles at dawn,
or squeak of shoes on desecrated marble.
Imperfections I’d given up on.
On the third Monday in January you’ll find me
writing an ode I can’t quite finish, like a New Year’s
resolution I’ll stick to next time, I promise.
Sometimes, taking a break from the news and work,
I’ll spot the collected works of this or that poet
and, for a moment, have context for despair.
How hard to compose an original love poem
or anything, really, all of us talking and
tweeting nonstop, never has it been easier to read
or write, so why do we understand so little,
How lovely it would be to live in a nation where
poetry put down insurrections. Then I might bang out
this stanza and go sue a wolf for stealing the moon.
As bare branches sway in cold;
as puddles turn to ice, then crack with ease;
as austere skies split and our telescopes,
trained on the great exuberance, glimpse our fate
of destruction by the sun, so I love you
On a drizzly morning walk I stopped to let a hearse go by,
its pitch-black paint sweating polish, and as I waited
for the procession I thought about who profits from tragedy,
the business of loss, and who profits no matter what,
We have as many homes to inhabit
as books to read, piling up in libraries,
coffee tables, bed stands—more than we
can make time to delight in as we draw
the single breath that is our delicate existence.
Amidst the glorious absurdity of it all he walked,
barefoot, on snow and fire, resolute-if-flinching,
and even now we see his footsteps of particle and
heat disappearing, alone-as-ever…
I was given twenty minutes to die. I had
no idea what to do. All around me, life
moved at a crawl, while within the chambers
of my body, nerves fired faster than I could dodge.