Chronus Shrugged

Forever before forever after

Was I ever here? History’s a thought.

And though this I should know I am struck by

Timelessness in my mood, in the blood in me.

The change is mine and ubiquitous;

Then, so far in. Now, in orbit amazed.

Nothing can be said of anything now.

To ponder a micron in Appalachia,

But a space and time precious to me.




A Matter of Taste

I was there in a chateau and its bevy of rooms.

I, invited. I symbiont in the darkest room

Who made his way under town into

A subterranean glow factory,

In which I, for minutes, spoke to her, a worker.

Of all things, I did speak: of saliency,

Of the market and love, altruism.

And she confessed she had seen the town,

Mired in gloom, awakened. But wind

as such lifted her light hair up there

In the streets above, and I was nowhere at once,

Letting her know in modulated whispers

It was her not I who I valued.

Take it Slow

Though joy is sparse,

And we volley notes on notes,

You can only love the ebb.

My brother the moon.

I can’t speak of us in those terms,

Us finite. God, the fear of not knowing.

God, the unknown, like forever times everything.

It never ends, no way.

And look at you, shifting it all to you

And your time here in our town in my arms

Watching the lights go ‘til the stars brighten.

So abused and sick, you dealt pain like hearts in spades.

You coddled and flogged the whipping boy.

The hurt won’t heal you.

Given or felt, it won’t bring you back to life.




The Captain’s Dream

Limbs and thickets hide its face in the midst.

In the underbrush, a clearing, an auteur’s hut.

Moths and thin legged pests dot its doors.

A spearhead, a man made vessel points to space.

In each quarter, space for one lit by bulb and sun.

Her voice soars like flock, low then high.

A bridge sublime, a chorus lifts off.

It sings to other worlds of pain and loss,

A life formed, a beauty innate and real.

And time, now and tomorrow collide in mind

And body. Its dense fuselage sways,

And wings hum against a passing sky.

In each window, kaleidoscopic hues, eclipsed

In part by a slim dark emblem, glow on open texts.

Thrusts rumble. A whirring rhythmic tongue chants.

In shaken metal and foam, the pilot’s pew,

The heights of us, the caliph and the captain’s dream.

A spell supreme devours us whole.

Something else is here. I want it to know I see.




Fountain on Arch

It pours up and bobbles its top.

A dance both unbound and rhythmic

Falls on upward thrusts and blooms whites dots.

Drops against dusk scatter

out and down like dying sparks in July, lit then dark.

And force is null where spheres leap from its apex

To a roily spout below where it moves freely

And spurns each state, shedding gown after gown.




Attrition Tan Lotion

Not the stroke of green or spectral gray of rocks on linen

Or August rays past leaves onto sunning lakes

Brushed onto canvas with pretty mud—viscid pigment.   

No, not a spark applied to industry:

A cure, a find, a new way to meet ends;

Epiphanies like oil to pistons, tech-lube;

But in each one wonder as long as the sky’s arc,

A reminder clouds, like us, are never the same twice.




The Bond between Spiders and Ants

At once alone, an unseen nest cups his fall.

Strings on him signal a piqued fate.

A spindly harpist plucks his line free.

Its striped chassis spills its clingy self on its find

It pulls. Up and down it goes—a ritual bop.

With its hind stilts and middle four, it weaves.

It spins its guest with care and aplomb.

For dinner he came and left, a meal half gone.

A soft wind rocks a fading friend to sleep.

A binding mesh waits airborne and longs anew for life lost.