2 New Poems

You Never Go Far, Really

It would be like me to seem drunkard's clumsy,

without a liquor’s drop to my name, sloshing,

spinning about the glass, in ill-suited fashions

of cut khaki and pocket cloth, I never had

a chance.

It would be like me to lose eyeglasses,

shape finders and little bits of paper with the world

scribbled on them; all falling from possessions'

memory, the things that could see our

way home.

It would be like me to take four months from

a job to be done in eight, leaving it behind

to a whirring of engine, an ocean drop of

continental cloud; some kind of friend

I am.

It would be like me to half-heart escapes,

still being a same pillar of opposed calm,

nerves nauseous as thrown stone, flashing

green light never was something grand

for me.

And it would be like you to remind.

European Cobblestone

The first thing was the bitter hobble, landing

gear on yellow-strip concrete, same as

countless still as weary, the tearing shreds

of stomach woozy with small cups and cellophane,

finally to still as eyes

came open with newborn rubbings.

Next it was the flitting thought, the back-and-forth

of ceramics unfamiliar, never to meet ourselves,

the same walking across again, would

have soaked in the rain, tempered cold

with hearty abandon, reckless to the touch,

the same as their belongings.

And it was the first of the gin and perfume,

the bitter pint and pitter-patter from tourist

shutterbulbs, the last sudden impulses of

childhood's wishful banks, crossing rivers

with recognition of thousands of small

turns, little deaths, we each were taking,

And it felt like I'd made it.