A Graceful Exit
I wished to leave Celtic,
vanish into night, fog,
rain on Burren.
There is nothing that tethers
to the party tune,
a monotone already heard
by hundred-thousand aloft,
a films viewed anxious,
half-understood, forgotten by morning.
You tap me on the shoulder,
angered at the shoe leather
print on carpet:
Too soon for it all,
to finish the a moon cycle,
too late for hearts to heal.
Love Letter in Violet
I meet you in the middle of rooms,
scent-stained with unused shoe bronze,
withering in sunshower heat,
to find how sinking bodies
fit together against skies
of social license, parental voices,
to find what we were meant for
except the falling of masks,
the repetition of Bergman scenes.
I meet you without petals for armor
without rapiers for quick-cut wisdom,
just holy fruits to anchor
our low-lit expectations
to become what was meant to be.
Blood Strength
I watched your life drain
into vials, a red neon shade
coursing through plastic tubing loops;
lab coats and hair nets with Peanuts characters
blocking the view
from where I sat, distant on
uncomfortable plastic, reaching occasional
to give what breath and comfort
hands can manage when they shake
under their own torments.
Under cloud skies from beyond,
the coats try to add everything
as numbers on punch cards,
part of an equation hidden
behind veiled eyeglasses.
It never takes on the full flesh of Spring,
cheek cold dampness of deep winters
with you, in olden times we’d
suffer with our meanings,
now just wait for phone calls,
to read entrails again.
Old Chairs
When I’m standing in doorways,
nose against fogged glass of time,
I see you:
You still have Batmobile clock.
the one from Forever,
not the Nolan films.
There is still a soot cover,
of cigarette ash,
gray market marijuana trimmings
on the table you’d toss
coins, affects from pockets
of jeans you don’t wear anymore.
You move with purpose,
full of reason for being,
rather than the peace made
with death’s relatives now.
February (Victorious)
I feel best when the music
gets up loud enough to
drown chatter of restless
narcissists, the sense that I
am alone, complicit in
waving shards, stacks
flame on the night sky,
television crystals.
Somewhere in the neon canola glow,
I lose myself to rhythms falling
at feet, to marshal stomp of
marching boots down laneways,
smack of hard rain against
windshield glass.
I knew shapes shadows would take
against stone carving,
holy places brushed clean of snow,
Clean of accusations against
life and heart, some kind
of communal elegy,
carried through crowd,
When the shouts became too much
for me to pass on,
and I let others speak
in dark noon of who was
gone that they remembered
just as annoyance,
as apparition;
The same as I,
after the page turned.
Air Loss
The paper bags on the
live edge table are surrounded
by faded roses, turning
pink to brown in humid air;
I look to the weeds growing
defiant of concrete patches
across the road,
stronger than those things well-loved.
On a hollow bark stage
in life I felt the
wounds of desire,
ghostly sheets trailing in time;
The balmy hypnosis of summer
lawns in front of the BBC broadcast
castle, where a sparkle shone over
every avenue I could travel down;
I turn blue from the altitude.
My wife sends me a picture of
a Holstein cow, a mental health
slogan, an unchallenging affirmation.
The breeze catches again, petals
strewn across floor, ready
for a sweeping hunt of time,
stealing the new moon from sky.
Songbirds
If I go first,
in the next life,
as a sparrow,
I’ll wake you with songs;
Our love will be simple then,
no more ink-black stains
of deep feeling to clutter
the picture, no more
shattering shouts to break
the silence of summer hours.
We’d still have distance,
but sharpened points would
be gone, just the echo
of sweet language unheard.
I could only touch you from
afar, see you through
windows and wires, an apparition
of what we shared once;
It was a mess
of glass, blood, sweat, spit, tears,
hacking screams in dark,
Before we moved to our new
places,
Before I could love you
perfect, through air
With songs in morning light.
