Bay Area Rapid Transit
Nothing not natural. The snowfall
our heads release, the green rubbery earplugs
worn thin by a thin man, the map in its frame,
the screen a girl rouging her cheek uses for a mirror,
the rhino-faced youth singing off-tune a tune
about singing off-tune, the chic boots of a woman who
stays up late reading in her clawfoot, her eyebrows
silver, her seatmate (me) emailing with his thumbs—
not a project I want but a life, a life
not only closure but compensation, a longing
I mean for the rose not to stand for beauty or truth
but just a rose, no more art—
a boy in an A’s hat, flat-brimmed, photographs
a wall whooshing by and thinks snow—
what snow? what revenant is this
digesting trains, languishers in the waning
of soul and speculation, what snow, he thinks,
as our bodies in the tunnel of soul or no soul
speed by on filthy cushions, no snow
from nowhere, snow snowing again
as our eyes distribute desire
forever, Hello, middle ode
of a soul in the now, in the silver streaking train
baying below a million gallons of bay
Prayer
Matins nones vespers also begot
alarm clocks and surveillance
and so I sing dear abusive muses of the stopwatch and the cuckoo
oh please if you would
untether me like animals on a mountainside
let me be Hesiod
tending his goat one second
scribbling proverbs and fables the next
even if sometimes the goat escapes
let the goat escape
The Power of Introverts
Morning itself became
the steady messages the rain tapped on the roof.
You and I were touching each other
with admiration for our shapes
that seem to say hello hello hello
in all but words like sap
swelling in a February maple.
The newspaper had other messages.
A spate of pedestrian deaths,
leaks in the bridges,
pitchers and catchers
reporting for spring training,
a bestseller called Quiet
got a few lines of review—
The power of introverts
in a world that can’t stop talking—
the economy (mythical) flagging
ink mixing on my fingertips
with coffee powder and stories
of powerful men somewhere
having their way again.
Our craving, you and I, for one another
has something in common
with wipers whipping across a windshield.
It wants to see in the storm
one thing clearly.
The Bear
Toss the compost
water the violets
wash the sink
scrub the tub
toss the trash
print the ticket
pack for cold and pack for heat
make the bed
wash the sheets
(in the walls of the mind,
clichés alive like termites—
cookie crumbling
dust clearing
the bear going over the mountain… )
and then I was out the door as they say
with my papers and my language
and my inquiry into love
in a body I’ve chained
always to lists
which is a word for lust and for listen
but also for limit
