Those People

Those people who think it is their duty
To cease to exist      for the rest of us
Whether very old or very young
They are like drawings blown through the snow
When the winter comes up to one’s house
I feel their existence constantly
Creases in my being
Everything about us is paper
We are here to be recorded on
I feel their existence constantly
Green light at the empty intersection
When there are no cars there
Growing light and breaking up again
As the seconds in a clock
They do away with themselves
And their names blow after them
They make me very sad because I understand
I try to hold them by the fistful
But it is like snow in the warmth of a fist
It is like the green light of the intersection
Where there are no cars and the snow blows through
Bright and scintillating and light
As if to show off
How easy it is to be nothing
But a sense of light
Blowing through the eyes of others
Never again agreeing or disagreeing

 

 

 

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A Light

Alone but not lonely
And lonely but not alone
And only but not one
And one but not own

A lamb and yes a lamp
A lamp but not a loan
A loan but not true
True but not here

I found a bird’s wings in a pond
Left and right, weirdly severed
Where was the middle part
Meant to hold the thing together

I had to imagine a raptor, a rapture

It reminded me of the alphabet

It was a  bird all beginning and ending

 

 

Searchlight

The rain is scribbling against the window
Each time I look it’s a different monoprint
of the oh-so-artistic night
A mouse snuck into our house
I can’t type “sneaked,” I’m sorry
It sounds a rodent in sneakers
I suppose it’s the negative degrees
I lit a candle
The cat sniffed for its blood
We had fun
I text you these words
Thoughts from the nineteenth century
Please bring home milk and bread
I look like a witch in this candlelight
Does any of this make you horny?

Halfway Through a Keyhole

The smallness of a hand
enter you. Should be a lock
on the dawn. The rabbit bent
under the moon like a knuckle
in your mind. Good morning,
three a.m.  Frost on leaves,
who knew you could embroider
diamonds?  Rare headlights
seen on the small mountain
across, no different than
airport lights, but going
down, down:
a late drinker
or early worker.
Dark imagination
will have to split
the difference.

The Light Bulb of Cumae

You say to write a poem
you need to feel inspired.
I have this light bulb
in the center of a ceiling,
the center of a room,
that is similarly unreliable.
I flip the switch at night,
but it only comes on
if it is inspired.
Yet I don’t replace
the broken light bulb,
out of a deep respect
for its past poetry
of half-assed
light.