Elegy for Roscoe Simon

                             How strange

                             the search for loss

                             again, or more

                             than this.

                             - - - 

                           
                             How many times

                             he scraped against this

                             hungry cupboard door

                             so well rehearsed,

                             so now well fed.

                             Old squirrels dig their holes unhindered

                             in the yard. Wild geese

                             slide across the breeze like

                             clusters of sideways leaves

                             scrolling hard ground 

                             for the dead.

                             Cold blankets

                             are tucked in place.

                             Maple leaves fall

                             more golden than before. Ripe

                             apples turn more than red.

                             What thief 

                             would come so randomly

                             to sniff these empty chairs,

                             a myriad of playful things

                             abandoned in their corners;

                             who would spook a flock of
                             thundering tiny sparrows

                             from their yews outside

                             his old living window?

  

                             Silence

                             rubs its desirous fur

                             against my autumn legs

                             for a scratch

                             on its needy head of wind,

                             its gust of whiskers and twigs
                             its patter of chronic malcontent.

                             Finger strokes of clouds

                             curl and curl for a nap like feathers
                             on the tops of soft upholstered air.

                             A second hand clicks,

                             a pall of wind bemoans the window,

                             an old tree bares its branches.

                           
                             The room, now empty,

                             yawns itself to sleep,

                             the fresh white sleep
                             of solitude and long dreams. 

              City Cider

              Parched city blacktop leads 

              past the busker playing hard blues 

              outside the hardware store today. I push through

              the old wooden doors for plumber’s putty

              to seal the lurking drain. 

              Hard city bouncing, living wooden stairs,

              internet saturation, dripping spigots make

              water circles stain the easy wood floor.

              I wonder about these old red brick

              apartment walls, if they might alarm

              the room with their odd uneven

              mortar sections missing. This

              is no factory, no random city strain. We simply

              sit and listen over traffic on headphones

              while the city boom unveils.

              A city man flops below in a happy feathered suit,

              hawks glossy turkey coupons like last year
              to the whole wide street; likens his own

              false wisdom to daybreak; makes a few

              dark moves toward drivers with their cars turned down;

              keeps a little booze close to his bottled brown heart

              to keep himself from fading all in.

              After the turkey man I start to notice street signs

              and naked trees scratching rhythm to stretch the time.

              Dark finger limbs close in on winter sketches.

              Branches shake their black stubs empty and down low,

              reach up to erase the oiled rusty sky.

              Overhead again the train rackets by, passes quickly,

              brings the only calm to every city’s real dark dreams.

              At the holiday we’ll drink hard apple cider together

              into our phones, slough off our own difficult

              words, exchange photos with meaning this time,

              text outside the windows with whole grammar to

              reach for long gratitude, a sense of genuine art, deep friendship. I’ll

              slip a piece of glossy paper under my drink

              the way you used to do to prevent water rings

              from marrying the wood 

              and wonder what else
              you must be doing somewhere.

                  Firewood

                  Can’t distinguish 

                  gray wash of lake

                  darker than air 

                  or darker than water, darker

                  than gray wash
                  itself

                  Here it is Monday, brings

                  with it always this time of day

                  thoughts of disturbance

                  punching home 

                  Autumn is wet,

                  wetter than always.
                  Dark wet leaves stick

                  with drizzle to the rain, stick to
                  glass windows wetter than again
                  so come back

                  to the kitchen for lunch, 

                  coffee and the plasma of noon

                  Here we come again cool

                  standing on the chill veranda, fleece

                  jacket sleeves pointing west

                  toward the big churning

                  lake, to you, to the

                  solitude

                  you gave me, asking me

                  to follow

                  when I could

                  as soon as I kiss away

                  the dead wood, haul

                  it up the hill,

                  stack it in a row

                  at our old empty house
                  to burn

                  like every man should

                     Indoor Prayer

                     I eat granola

                     sitting in a yellow stare

                     of morning. Each window,

                     each bird, each dying flower can see

                     the whole world

                     from here.
                     The cat on my chair

                     intrudes, feigns interest in

                     my empty space--the empty bowl,

                     my spoon, my fingers,

                   
                     the squirrels and tree

                     with colored leaves that fall--beyond

                     the feathers of its own life.

                     This must be the secret: 

                     to contemplate autumn's colors

                     and wonder why the cardinals stop

                     outside this particular window
                     with bright orange beaks like leaves

                     to pluck crimson berries

                     from the thick green yews

                     and take their fill

                     before winter fully

                     arises.

                            River of Stones

                            I once knew a poet.  She was

                            a black velvet bag

                            full of diamonds.

                            Glimmering, she told me,

                            “Hold firm the river in your arms.

                            Let the water flow like words

                            churning through your fingers.

                            Pace yourself by breathing. Feel

                            fresh water’s wheel press against your

                            chest, the pulsing taps on your body

                            for a change. Stand firm to breathe.

                            Do not pretend to celebrate.

                            Listen gently to the eddies

                            and their every little hug.

                            Your lungs will grasp the cold.

                            Your feet will intercede.

                            Rocks underwater will

                            laugh at your attempts

                            to reach the river's knobby banks

                            for stillness. You will be

                            turned aside, your feet will

                            not be sure of who you are.

                            You will not know

                            your own rhythms.

                            Stand firm to the river

                            and she will bend to you.

                            She will arch her back against

                            your tender knowing and

                            whisper you downstream toward

                            a scented grove of autumn trees;

                            the passing flash of brook trout;

                            the hurriedness of seasons;

                            cold marrow of the water;

                            the aptitude of trees; the

                            secrets of cold stones …”

                        Drill

                        I have two families,

                        one of children,
                        one of cats.

                        We eat basil bread

                        together.

                        Some I see

                        quite often, others

                        scatter for days across

                        their sea of work and trees,

                        of papers, of books,

                        of highways, missing.

                        Cats have their

                        Buddhism and

                        practice it daily--

                        on my carpet

                        with their toys and 

                        hidden pee.

                        They sleep
                        immodestly

                        and scratch

                        at the most

                        apparent times.

                        But children

                        don’t return

                        as often as they

                        could in favor of

                        their own becoming.

                        This is ordinary.

                        This is real.

                        I don’t remember their

                        faith or favored kinds

                        of shoes, their preferred

                        flowers or their songs,

                        only the thoughts they 

                        leave behind.

                        I am still here,

                        a kestrel on the wind,

                        a father with wine,

                        a father humming old

                        window songs, a lone father

                        waiting with cats, with

                        melting lit candles 

                        and basil bread warming

                        in these little heats of time.

                           New Canticle 

                                “In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.”
                                                  – Denise Levertov

                           Lift red cranberries

                           with your fingertips
                           to your lips and
                           eat them all

                           slowly,

                           like the Eucharist.

                           Peel a new

                           orange now. The juice
                           runs freely 

                           down your fingers

                           into your palms 
                           as you tear apart
                           the cold wet flesh.

                           Those sweet

                           cold sections
                           come to bloom
                           in your hands. You
                         
                           put them in your mouth now.
                           Place them back
                           against your teeth.
                           Follow that

                           feeling with your

                           tongue, the swelling taste
                           from the fruit

                           and wonder.
                          
                           Bend each section
                           against your mouth
                           for the flooding.

                           Here is the stickiness

                           you desire:
                           this holiness,

                           the scent of your hands,

                           the taste of memory
               
                           are new places
                           God has been,

                           and clean water

                           and the curtains
                           and the tears ...