Do we comprehend reality?
That, finally, all we are
are faults in time, enough to pause
the relentless entropic urge,
but never to stop it?

All humanity has imagined
that it alone was the point,
all those nameless, greaseless corpses,
a poverty of sand and wind.

Who ever remembers them?

We have our own issues,
our own duty,
to create a universe
to be forgotten in its turn.

Mackinac Bridge

In the center lanes, your tires
whine against the taut steel grid,
five miles of heartache
standing in for gray tarmac,
which knows nothing of music,
and so, stays mute.

In the center, in the heart, you can hear
ballads of the iron workers
who laid the steel across wind-warned
waves, whitecaps straining to reach them,
to pull them down among the generations

of sailing men and women, who,
heedless of candled windows and
widow’s walks,
never came home.

“You belong to me,“ sang the lake,
“you who know no bounds
but sky and steel. I will be your bed,
your limit, your last true lover.
Come to me.”

And they did,
and the bridge, knowing this better
than all the histories of men,
sings with the voices of ghosts
wrung from the iron waves.


Like not the wayward urge,
taste not the open door;
it’s too early to think of myth,
too late apology.

When was it ever promised
that the world would
spin just so, to please even
the least of us?

Oh, yes, tremble, by all means,
at the darkening sky,
but don’t imagine it’s just for you.
You have not the significance
of the least comma.

The universe stops not
its droning hum to check
your preference, the world suits
neither you nor me,

not the grave winds of change,
nor the plodding steadfast crag;
neither is it what it seems,
and no less are you.