Alchemy

Moments of grace in our settled sights,
a simple walk, no more;
you stopped to pick up leaves along the way.
 
Shakeup of elements.
Carnage --
then a breath.

Grace is in the bones unbroken,
skin intact, the integrity of organs --
but also in the wound,
the fracture. Rupture is not
the opposite of wholeness
but its condition.

Huddled under neighbors' blankets,
we let things go and breathe.

You won't remember this:
not the broken windows,
not the trucks or men in heavy yellow overalls,
not the crack of Christmas lights
crunching underfoot.
(I had meant to take them down.)

I know now, too, that you have lost
the time when I was there,
when we were one family,
when you and I and, yes, your father
faced each close-knit day together.

Then, I only felt the transmutation
resulting from that one clear moment's grace.

A draft ...

Moments of grace
in our settled sights,
a shakeup of elements,
         carnage --
then a breath.

Grace is in the bones unbroken,
skin intact, the integrity of organs --
but also in the wound,
         the fracture.  Rupture is not
the opposite of wholeness
but its condition.

Huddled under neighbors' blankets,
we let things go and breathe.

You won't remember this:
not the broken windows,
not the trucks or men in heavy yellow overalls,
not the incongruity
of Christmas lights crunching underfoot.
(I had meant to take them down.  No need.)

I know now that you will also not remember
when I lived there with you,
when we were one family,
when you and I and, yes, your father
faced each day together.
Close-knit.

Then, I only knew the world would look so different
on either side of that clear moment of grace.

Irene

It didn't used to smell so wild,
like raw branch and sodden beam,
and the lost unfortunate lives
of small things.

Now it tongues walls and lawns,
places it has no right to be;
no right, except of that which made it --
reminding metal and cement block
who came first.

By next week we'll send in crews and glance
sidelong at still shallows
as we cart away debris.
Some things gone forever.
Some transformed.

See through.

I am not clairvoyant--
I see you clearly only sidelong.
Up close we blur our margins,
bets smilingly hedged,
presentation all.

Askance I know you better.
Scrutinized, your practice
turns to false fronts,
a show of jazz-hand eyes
I fell for once.

Sleeping, or at work or
at a distance, then I see
you free of that imprecision
even if I cannot plumb you,
deep or otherwise.

haunted

If I must have ghosts
Might as well be
Tangled sheets that do the trick
Turned down fresh
Turned out cold
Set free to cleave to mountaintops
Cant and recant told in whispers
To your sleeping ear

unruly

seething hair the strands caught
never held between clenched fingers
tangled on rough cheap sheets
tangled in your teeth
your fingers

after when the blood cools
and skinsweat leaves a salt veil
slowly we will run lax fingers
through devil’s knots
and clove hitches
and figure eights of hair

thinking in numbers

Trying to give myself a boost back into writing poetry, so this is what I have: