Winter light. Morning whispers.
Too often now. And again

the sky. The night. And again,
too soon. The stars and the moon

awakened. Too often I
have awoke the night, too soon.

Awakened. I have again
disturbed the constellation.

Once more, of what importance?
This passage, not quite enough

repeated. And so again
To ask why, the anxious night

The sky, again this passage
and this passage repeated.

The sullen sonata now
suddenly become a fugue.

The memory of carbon.
The spirit of water and

fire. And of course, this desire.
And you, after all these years,

Surrogate on a Sunday.





Again I have awakened
to find the night sky severed

and the light separated
of stars. The sky hollowed out

in the absence of such thoughts
of death and this seduction.

Too often I have echoed
the words. This phrasing, the same

macabre mantra leading to
the same darkened cul de sac.

Too often have I wished to
end it. To live. Terminate

what was forgone or ended.
I will have seen your beauty

then shortly thereafter, I
will have forgotten this pain.

I will have met you, of course,
eventually, in that field,

I will have crossed your strict but
still somnolent gaze through

the moiré of bending reeds.





Once again the tragic air,
the music muted. The same

passage stagnant. Too often
I embarked on the wrong path

not knowing what brought me here.

Roll such tautologies like
stale tobacco. This and that.

Maybe. Maybe not. Mark my
misfortune in the acid

remains of espresso cups.
No culture of cobble stone

walks or cathedral ruins.
And no new discoveries.

I shall thumb through the pages
of the broken book, recite

the passages, always known,
but only now understood.

I shall bore banalities
in legal absinthe. I shall

see my estranged fate in the
fleeting glances of women.

I will have talked and talked and
said nothing. My lips will have

moved without shaping a word.
I will have spent a life time

without speaking, without the
particular need of speech.

I will have given myself
to your splendor, in rapture,

of course, well intentioned but
stupidly, fallen in love

even, and lost you again
to that certain other world.

I will have deemed it worthwhile,
despite myself, in the glow.

Summer waking. Strange lover.
I shall forever deny

having written anything.
I shall deny all the words,

the poetry in this world,
And beauty. And art. And you.

This derangement of dimanche.
My impatience for morning,

with it, my impertinence.
This slow splendor. And these remains.





I cannot describe the moon.
Tonight, brilliant as though

banished, white as my longing,
slow in its swoon, like a psalm,

dear as death and near to it.
How much longer must I wait?

These darkened spheres of sorrow
and reticence suffering

eclipse. To meet you, again,
your lips, but this time in that

dream, another place prescribed.
How shall I describe this fire

within and the electric
shards of a memory grown

wild, a child lost, communing
with an inflammable past,

and the wind which understands
all things? Present, or gone and

forgotten, knowing of soon.
I cannot describe the moon.

Tonight, held hardly harvest,
slightly scalloped like my heart,

still, full of premonition
and forlorn, part quixotic

like a query portending
pain. Sworn domination of the

darkness and the darker rain.
This was of the greater plan

and thus naturally bound.
Your beauty like a violent

passage, this vision quickly
vaporized, now a shadow

of something forever lost.
That kiss, which was the kiss of

death, confounding, and fatal
unto itself. I have thought

of you, stupidly, these times,
endless with weight, and my words

truncated like the constant
thought that I am here, real, and

that I matter, incognate
as I may be in my state.

Still, this quiet and torrid
night, this irreparable

sentiment shown, circumscribed
without. How shall I describe

arrays like constellations
of calamity contained.

A life time of nostalgia
in one furtive glance withdrawn,

the stars melting in torrents
like tears and the wind which will

not understand, rearing its
bent face in trepidation.

How shall I describe? Hallowed
in its spectral orb. And the

wind which understands all things.
Like these leaves, lyrics hiding

themselves under names assumed.
I cannot describe the moon.

Tonight, sensual like my
song, fearless as fate, and prone

to tragedy. Self licensed
for sighing, surreptitious

sometimes, repeating cycles
between affliction and sleep.

What cost to mold this moment?
Retract, knowing fully well

I shall be punished for this
act of treason against man,

some defiant funambule
tracing light. And yet if it

were to rain just now I would
collect the drops in a jar

like fireflies in mid-summer
in the lightness of late June.

I cannot describe the moon
with the air emitting sounds

of drunken accordions.
This convergence of matter.

The beading glass, the tired
cigarette, the watered down

whisky and the tarnished spoons.
How shall I describe? Desire,

and these lips, ripened like prunes.
I cannot describe the moon.

Tonight, sublime syndicate
of an awaking, whispers

of a dawn ephemeral
caching themselves in shadows

almost patient like the East.
This banality pressing

a deadly aneurysm.
Forgive me. Please forgive me

How shall I describe? This thing,
I have known you, your beauty

from the oldest dream I’ve held,
and now after all these years,

again for the duration,
my present longing for you,

alone in my hotel room,
an uncharted continent.

I shall not describe the moon
in a country where longing

no longer means anything,
in such strict absence of bliss.

And the wind which understands
everything, excepting this.





There is nothing of interest
in the insolent grammar

drawing diction where the tongue
ceases to articulate

the distress and detriment.
The preterit shall become

modal in form. Pretending
this sentiment founded on

the absence of sensation.
The sensational painter

painting the present moment,
the stopped instance eternal.

The poet, exterior
to everything standing by,

beside the moment. And space,
working the frame just after,

elsewhere in another time.
Over and again I will

have told this tired story,
frustrated and turbulent.

I will have fortified fate
with each stolen stroke until,

the placid pigments have all
faded, or have found their way

into some ethereal place.
I will have scored the same scene,

and lived concurrently twin
lives of parallel sadness.

The cause effect of cycles,
the forgotten first flutter.

I will have worn the ribbons
down on this typewriter, frayed

by the repetitive strikes.
This one tethered verse at last

let go, like a new bird drunk
on its first flight of fancy.

The spurned syntax, the enslaved
appositives reclaiming

its meaning, the same lament
playing out so many tongues

all ending in such reserve
between two parenthesis.

Indexed and made archival
the ringing of each line’s end,

unaccomplished narrative
truant in immature forms

never to be exposed and
no audience to behold.

This triumphant nothingness.
And so what of it? I had

a dream and it went like this:
Period, period. Ellipse…





You look now like your father
more than ever. You even

bare the same tired markings.
Such leanings lent to shadows.

The vacant gaze returning
even more empty with age.





What is most missed is the light
breath, the slight undulation

of sleep, the innocence of
half whispers under bed sheets,

the sun that peers through curtains.
Now stretch. The scent of coffee

made less bitter sleeping in.
Superfluous cigarettes.

Those caresses with eyes closed
when everything was all right.

That is what I miss the most.





There is still that heightened pain
in my heart. There is still that

vast emptiness within me.
I have tore at my insides

with words as knives and nothing
came of these insipid strokes.

I have become entirely
inelegant now, and strange.