we try to translate love
by expanding unfamiliar
rules in directions favoring
our comfort. most times
we succeed only in pulling
the blanket over our heads
at the expense of souls
shivering in our shared space.
fading light
the woodpile runs low
while the cold closes
around us, lightly tapping
our faces with flakes
of snow. how long
can the fire rebuff
the frigid wind,
or do we waste time
staring into flames
rather than the eyes
of those around us?
Ending
I had not seen her in years,
but she was gone long ago.
A living apparition
of flesh and blood, a blurry
tintype that haunts forever.
Now it is over. Shade
transcends from the shadows,
and something more like light
spreads through the quiet air.
* From my book, Awaiting the Images
pastor joel
the preacher closed the doors
when the floods came, hoping
his mega ark would carry him
away to the prosperity land.
accountants and lawyers sat
two by two while bankers
held collection baskets
out the windows so the poor
could sacrifice their riches
in exchange for last rites.
hidden
we use light for selfish
purposes. create, manipulate,
bend, refract, illuminate
only what we want to see.
but from its natural state
we shade our eyes, remain
inside or slick our skin
to ease the burn, anything
to remain unexposed
in a forgotten darkroom.
Communal
We share the breath that moves
between us, escapes, whispers
away, dances through leaves,
and ripples the waters, lifts
the birds across the sky,
then circles somewhere distant
and lonely to tell my soul
some secret we will never know.
Visions
Do you still see the dead
walking among the crowd,
in the library, on the bus,
at the playground? Everywhere
but the old stone church
where bones grow brittle
beneath its crumbling weight?
You once said they smile
and whisper words you cannot
fathom, turn, and walk away.
They carry light in glass jars,
brushing against the living
like a winter wind through
a forest of barren trees.
Midlife
The wind is unrelenting,
and I shield my eyes
to stare towards the horizon.
Just when something
is almost in focus,
heat waves and haze
obscure the shapes dancing
in and out of sight. I wait
a few more minutes
before the angry gusts
nudge me forward, a reminder
that resting any longer
will not keep away the snow.
Wishing
They say to wish
upon a star,
but how many
no longer burn?
Is the light
we see
an illusion
of hope
that flickered
away thousands
of lifetimes ago?
Can a prayer
survive in space,
or will invisible
energy carry it
forever through
the galaxy
long after
we’re gone?
Awaiting the Images 