january 25th

I came home to find

You had taken all my clothes you’d taken

Over the years, and left them on my front steps.

They smelled like you.

Tonight, I try to shed my work self,

My constant energy and stories.

I trim the plant you gave me when you went to cuba.

Its leaves are grey. When I am done,

There are no leaves left,

Only wet green stubs,

The raw insides no longer

Behind what is dead and dying.

I drove the backroads to the airport

Where I used to, all those years ago,

By the cemetery overgrown and broken,

By the small road connecting to Darby,

By the river I promised I would fish,

By the broken bottles where we celebrated

our union victory.

That road always floods, the cars back up,

Red headlights swishing in thick mist,

And they crawl ever so slowly through the bottomless pool,

Almost swallowed, but then miraculously whole and dripping,

They are on the other side. Like a baptism.

Tonight, I was hoping it would rain.
I hear the car wheels chewing maple leaves,

And not spitting them out.

january 24th

My world is stacked in bars of light.

On the highway, everything turns gold

And my body is hurtling through space

15 of my own lengths a second.

Over a white boxtruck with graffiti

At its ribs, the sun doesn't hurt anymore—

My retinas burn and what was a storm that took

Over the city simmers off.

Even though I’m going somewhere,

I’m here.

The door is always open here,

Cool winter stopping by to pay respects

Where I keep reminding him

“you do not live here”

but he does.

Why can we hurt the ones we love?

Thanksgiving over smashed potatos,

Talking into earbuds while riding a bicycle

Into work, standing 3 feet away in the kitchen

Not looking at each other.

It doesn’t make sense to me.

Maybe it’s all those tabs of acid

Or maybe it is just grief

Or stress or lack of sleep

But my world is stacked in bars of light

And the bulbs have gone out

One by one, so that on the hill

Where the city winks and wiggles,

Stuff is not so clear.

like

Are we supposed to be alone?

Why is the world build of things

With nothing in between?

Slats of light and dust crawling through

The air, an empty envelope

with ragged edges, red sox

mug with crusted yogurt and a silver spoon,

Sheets stained with soy sauce and cum,

Books leaning wounded against each other

On the floor, black shoes with worn soles.

Eileen myles asks repetitively and

With a bit of distain “am i

Alone tonight?”

Come greek tragedy chorus

In multiple octaves, disharmonic

And over the tiles of some distant bathroom

Where you spit into the toilet bowl because you are drunk,

Come labor intensive small tasks

In which we might for but a second forget our—

Like when trying to put up a poster I fold

My lips tight over four thumbtacks

And one stabs deep into the skin.

Here here here. Always here.

With eliot water, Gertrude fish,

When I was falling in love

It was green leaves.

Damn but it’s hard.

I wish I could pack a tent

And an ax and a book

And enough water

And a solar charger for my phone

And some of my favorite foods

And a few friends

And my recently deceased grandfather

And myself as a 13 year old football player

And everyone I’ve ever loved

And just head into the woods for a while,

Figure it out.

But with everything happening so fast,

And with every city cutting left to get open,

And with that door still open,

And with my eyes that won’t let me sleep open

I don’t know if I’m going to figure it out.

If what I did today was right.

I don't know. It’s hard to go on

Knowing that.

Things end. And at some point,

The poetry stops and there is just that

For a while.

ceaseless oceans 5

I came to your house for selfish reasons

And when I got there,

I dodged past trash bags filled

With your old polos and sweaters,

I opened the closet where you recently found

Your souvenir pistol from the Korean war

And I looked for hidden treasures.

Your jackets are very puffy.

The house was dark and quiet.

Behind, the woods have thinned

So that I could almost see the neighbors house

When I pulled my pants down to pee.

The boat was covered in snow, which tonight

Will turn to ice. I heard a whipperwill,

Driving in with the windows down,

But it could have been somebody’s clock.

Almost no one is home this time of year.

Nobody recognizes me.

I went to nauset fish like we always do

And he treated me like a tourist,

Gave me the whole bit about how accurately

He can cut salmon.

Small objects hold you.

That glass bobble with black and gold splattered inside,

Your canes stacked in a corner,

The view from your bedroom window

Which I have hardly ever seen in my life but I imagine

You knew so well by the time you were gone

You barely looked at it anymore.

I am looking now at the branches like upturned hands,

At the clouds scattered above cedar panes all the way to the ocean.