old green enamel

Such winter surf atlantics
the stolen, the enameled

moment.

Crumbled like scone,
am I not flowerpot,

am I not chalk?

Remind me, fresh earth,
of corn husk and quahaug—

structures not meant to last
past first disappearance.

Hellebore, hellebore,
towards the frightened sparrow

I advance.

on sincerity

A night fire burning on a high, flat rock.

There is a coast and there are rocks on this coast.

Tending that fire

I trace my fractured readiness,

ill-prepared for abandon.

I want it to be steady and clear–two objects touching, leaving something with the other.

Wreckage, not.

The sun fields some sparrows.

Courage requires of us a lessening.

I haven’t been raised to be disappointed.

How, then, to avoid wreckage?

You are here with me, but I haven’t a clue how to alert you.

So jumps, so falls, so kneels.

How else are we to behave?

I trace  my fractured readiness

thinking words could be of some use but apparently it’s in the useless where meaning resides.

Like looking to a gaggle of helping verbs for action,

the given might as well be taken.

In the final sentence, I lift the cover and place the original face down on the glass.

it drips with animal thickness

They are there, we are here
and the image of both drips

with animal thickness—they are
better off without us for we

dream the long, long, short,
long of it—we dream broken

and halved, oh lord, half
of us are not concerned

with the other—in the heavy
and tight of things left

unsaid, in the long, long,
short, long of it, do we deviate

from habit when threatened?
Do they threaten us by reminding

us of who we are without
our beepy, buzzy devices?

Pose and hold it, a chance to
capitalize (with care) on the

moment, a chance to fill-in an
image of strength although

it’s improbable, even diminishing.
They are there, a glimpse

of what might come to be (for us)
since we are them minus the accents

or minus the mudslides or minus
the rituals but no less better off

when speaking of how we inhabit
this animal thickness. Oh lord,

half of me is looking not having
found what looking can do.

native

someone or something endangered–
to have the clock running against you, invaders

lined-up to take your homeground

since where you’re at is probably a good thing,
a good place, somehow undisturbed, but the place
could be somehow or in some way unattractive

and for that reason nothing else has claimed it–

that’s where tenacity and native come
together–to remain original in the original place is to know more
than most–

Not overdone–at least

here in the arid West–not overdone in size or color, sometimes
spindly, at least smart in leafage when considering the extremes–
take the washed-out orange of this flower, the flower shooting

down like a down-turned trumpet of a forgotten time

the doorman knew what he was talking about

the doorman knew what
he was talking about—

the sky, undisturbed by streets,
was mirage or fissure—

two virtualistic movements
of birds spoke of clemency,

spoke of hidden weakness—
the doorman knew

a quirk deeply embedded
in our culture—blood

money—debt that lined
the walls for promotion—

birds bank against
horizon like a plume

of pollutants, undisturbed
by borders, they flourish

in the antiquity of the moment
and make us hear with our eyes

(the doorman knew what he was
talking about)

the sole, unplugged exception
of sky spoke otherwise

theories of what we’re up to

is there an errant pigeon that will start
with the movement?

hasten. the pigeon.

theories of what we’re up to come down
to unfolding maps that have yet to be

filled-in.

it’s the filling-in that inhabits my thoughts.
when I’ve got you, you’re such a map,

opened, it’s all hasten & press-down–
the corners–

there are more than four.
veinfully able, wind lends a hand

with disarray as in what was
is no longer what’s left.

pressing down. pressing.
as if the pigeon hasn’t a hint of such

theories,

it unsteps the afternoon with less than a lot
to inhabit.

the white-throated sparrow

blown in blown down, the sky about to empty all that necessary difficulty & you

Mister White-Throat

busy getting under with scratch & back-in scratch & study & nib for nab– 

there’s snow to come there’s snow to come–a handsome fact felt in the bone–when was Canada or Iowa or Nebraska–why the front stoop of Here?

I’m grateful for your visit, your uncentering of this place–no, your uncentering of me–it welcomes & opens & hopes you rode out the storm