The Stare

I keep opening the front door
of this cold house,
middle of the night,

to look out into the snow.

So many prepositions in the snow.

It is here and it is falling.

No one home but me.
And no one expected.

But the little cat tracks in the snow!
Who comes to visit
this frozen

food bowl on my porch?

It is everything

mimicking the night.

And no one home.
And no one expected.

For Night Travelers

words like beginning and ending are not helpful
the way algae      waves its arms underwater
the taxi        you’re not sure is dreaming
in the steam        of the city night

could be here for you       could be
here for no one        an airport
nothing but another
of night’s paperweights

people coming in and out
of dark strips
all night long


 buttering up the stars