You will understand part of what I say here,
like seeing parts of the river of use to you,
like knowing the rock by the cracks
into which you can squeeze a hand or foot.
Love dissolves walls, but kernels remain.
How can I embrace you, if we become one?
How can I crave your touch, if it is only my own?
For every melding there is a sever,
and for every sever a mending.
It’s a riddle: how can you know a changing fate?
How can you see yourself through your own eyes?
One luck-drenched park bench afternoon
while dust drifted in and out of sunbeam
streams eyes closed I dreamed of living
of love-stained moons and lake-bound swoons
and stars so vast so supreme that only
a poor cosmic speck of a remnant spark
unremembered could hope to comprehend it
of the gravity of gravity and all the loose
and hellbound distance between here and now and now
and then the slow sloping dip of the long trip
at a whim an ungrim wager with fate I dreamed
of how in old age our deciduous dreams their bones
still seductive nudge us toward a place arriving
at which we can only look back helpless bemused.
A summer’s longing:
your face to light the darkness.
Tonight, a jealous moon.
My brother, lost among
fragments of memory strewn
like clues among the weeds
Another bride, another June, another sunny honeymoon
Another season, another reason for makin’ whoopee
It’s hot. The folding metal chairs
we sit on could at least make toast,
if not fry eggs.
We offer up our copious sweat
to the new, pulled into being
amidst the passing of the old.
The bride and groom trip happily
through their vows, and voila!
Two become one; the groom kisses the bride.
Later, at the Cutting of the Cake,
the inexhaustible cameras re-appear.
“No more kissing,” says the lip-weary bride.
He kisses her anyway, for good measure.
No one mentions dying.
We go home, fat and content.