A child finds himself wandering alone
In a forest, seeing a campfire and, drawn to it,
Finds dangerous companions, thinks,
What is it I am afraid they will take from me?
Not the place of my birth, or of my rearing,
Or the place from which my ancestors sought refuge
Not the things I’ve inherited –
Blue eyes, brown hair, big feet and a guilty conscience –
Or the illusion of permanence that is itself
The only permanent thing I know.
My life? Such a fragile thread!
you ask why I don’t write a poem
about what’s coming down all around
us as we speak
what’s to say about a life in the wilderness?
but it’s not like I haven’t tried god knows I’ve given it
all I had, spent my quota of midnights
so many poems fluttering in the blowback
utterly panicked
rhymes scattered like shell casings
meter cleft in the borning
aground on the shoals of the dead
wanderers always think they have a home
beyond the vapor trail but you and I,
my weeping friend, know we’re already there
the time has come, my dear, for reckoning
‘tis the past and not the future beckoning
and so in this hour of false redemption
we offer thanks for a return
to mere abomination
In my mind’s lens, my father’s
Face is smooth and petrified
Like an ancient lake
Steeped in mountains
It’s true, isn’t it,
There can be only one infinity
This is impossible:
Life without limits
Moons exist for no one
Though everyone thinks
They’re just
For dreaming
Question, they say, all of it,
Take nothing as given,
Give nothing up, erase all
Boundaries, be eternal.
He tried, and I tried after him.
Only we didn’t know
His freedom was my razor wire,
My freedom was his failure.
a face, tall, engaging
flickers in and out
of consciousness
strong and fragile
here and gone,
all the years and minutes
piled up against the door,
a window not open,
just cracked, the strain
too much
for a poor sparrow of a man
to peck at like some lonely
grass filled afternoon
misted edgewise into memory
out of reach, out of reach
these years have brought me here
I can’t say it’s much to look at
but here I am, regretting
nothing and everything at once
and still…
that face
Sometimes I follow ancient
trailing wrinkles, vague traces
of paths untaken, no use
to anyone now
after all the promises
have spilled out through
careless whim, unforeseen
swirls of hope and fury
all hung up to dry without regard
to logic or poetry
The crones of darkness linger
beneath a pointed finger, no singer,
but a low murmur, a thin skulking
wink of a man
Sometimes I sit in an empty room
with a bell and ring it,
trying to pinpoint the moment
it stops its waning tone.
That’s how a life is
exiles child 