Pierre

From out this window
I watch a wire
in the snow
The purity of its intent
To exist
It is nothing like the wings
That also shadow this glass
It is the thing
Of which hours are made
A piece of string
You believe in it one day
The way it crosses the landscape
Something holds it at either end
But these anchors
Are mercifully out of our view

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Ours

Think about the shadow of work
All our lives we were there
Just as in love
We were under someone’s shadow
Long dark scroll of hair
On the nape of a neck
When we visited the ocean we stared at it
From long rows of metal chairs
We were an army of the paralyzed
It was okay to be obliterated by wincing blue light
Is the hawk passive as it flies
Looking for blood to become hunger
Our dreams wonder to themselves
While we are asleep and paralyzed
In between asking themselves
If we are the real ones
If we are the real thieves

 

Pet

I wake and want to be different
from my self. I split the word
in two to show the goshdarn seriousness
of my intent. I do this for a someone
watching me (inside) who probably isn’t me,
but who ‘s always there anyway.
I mean the one who walks the other one
like a pet on a retractable leash.
These walks with our little wild friend
can be stressful. They can walk us,
and it’s embarrassing when others see.
Other times?  I’m not so sure.
We might enjoy the fun of having
a wolf take us for a ride.

Pebble

This pebble does not even wake at morning
There is no need for it to even know
When the arc of the heavens comes up over it
When dawn rides up with her rosy hood
There is a sweeping sense of existence
For those who rise and look out windows
The pebble that rests on the street
It is as real as you or I or any president
But it cannot care that it is real
Is it more or less true than us?
Granted, it always was exactly what it was
It didn’t vacillate the way we do
Oh, there were tiny erosions
But we wouldn’t know

So we mock it and say “unreal”

Because it never changes so much

So violently

Nobody could ever even know to endear

The way we fall in love with the inconstancies

Jack

The sense of disclosure
Feels less and less “a thing” to me
Not what the branch means
And not what it writes in the snow
The accident of its life

But that the weird thing reaches

This is so much more elemental
Haunted as the sugars of morning
When dreams trail about them at the window
When all your tragedy has worn off
Tattered as a sleeve

You are hungry again it is laughable

When before all you could eat was cold peas

Leave that poor winter bridge alone