The Point

The point of any conversation is to reach the end,
the conclusion. Do you want more coffee?
How long will you be in Nova Scotia?
How about that game last night? Or maybe not. Maybe
the point of any conversation is to keep the conversation
going, like a dog chasing its tail into sleep
or the line of climbers, tethered together
picking their way up a mountain.
You cannot see the summit
until you get there. Ditto the conversation
that circles in on itself
only to end up
somewhere unexpected.
As if everyone in the room
were waiting on the unspoken,
the implicit, the proverbial
elephant in the room
to speak. At which point
we can all speak freely, unafraid
of appearing stupid or needing
to fully understand how and why
we arrived at the point we are today.

Snowy Egret

Uncommon. Elegant. Fragile.
Like lace curtains in an open field near water.
Wineglass stems for legs.
He is an expert at standing
perfectly still.
The fish only see him
by his shadow.

Ailment

Transported by love.
Riding public transportation.
Wearing love's raiments.
Wrapped in affection.
Call it what you will.
What you want to be
is attracted, attractive
to those around you
like a person seen
waiting at a train station
wrapped in secret wings
about to take flight.

Answer to a Question no one Asked

The wave hides in the ocean, the way
rain hides in the cloud, the way
wine hides in the  bottle: darkness
surrounded by a world of darkness.
The bitter stories we tell ourselves
to justify this or that behavior.
Standing ankle deep in the tide
waiting to be swallowed up
by something we can't see.

Albatross

It's not the bird, it's the sea.
It's not the sea, it's the wind
or lack thereof.
It's the way the bird
is always there
when the wind is not.
It's the way the sea
refuses to move
which makes us bitter.
And the bird is totem
for the fate we claim
controls us. The stillness
we fear and the first breath
of air it rises to meet
and announce. Which,
for all we know,
may be the last
we will ever know.

Downeast

Boat upside down
on the shore
like a house
tilting to the east.
Light enters it
like a thief
or a poor man
carrying a statue
of the baby Jesus
wrapped in an old raincoat.
This story is a thousand years old
but is being told for the first time
again.

3 Found Poems

Found Poem: Practical Geometry

Geometry, is
that Science
which treats of
the descriptions and proportions
of magnitudes
in general.

Found Poem: A Line Is

 A point is that which has position but no magnitude nor dimensions.

A right line is length without breadth or thickness.

A mixed line is both right and curved.

A curve line continually changes its direction.

Parallel lines are always the same
perpendicular distance and they never meet
though ever so far produced.

Found Poem: An Angle Denoted

 An angle is
the inclination, or opening
of two lines, having different directions,
 and meeting in a point.

When an angle is denoted by three letters,
the middle one is the place of the angle,
and the other two denote the sides
containing that angle; thus,
let a b d be the angle,
b is the angular point,
a b and b d are
the two sides containing that angle.

Lilly

The single stalk
serves only to flaunt
the improbable

siren song color
no one could invent.
Like someone's underwear
run up a flagpole.
Someone you know.
Because you recognize

the shape and color

that the world is.
And despite
or because
of all that

the owner
of said display
shows no signs

of remorse.

Meals on Wheels

My mother drove for them for, what?
Ten or twenty years? She thought
it was her duty and would sit
and talk to her clients
about the weather, their children,
how hard it is for older people
to get around nowadays.
She would cluck and laugh
at how narrow-minded
the old black lady seemed
to the old white lady from the suburbs
doing her Christian work.
And I would pretend to not be
somehow embarrassed by both
halves of the conversation
she retold. But she did it
and never complained once
about the work or the time
it took. Which is more
than I can say for myself,
the privileged son of a privileged society,
that — even as we speak —
is turning in on itself
only to choke on the excess
it refuses to share
with the world
it has decided
is its enemy.

My Tattooed Heart

I am no good

at asking

for giveness

or anything

my tattooed heart

doesn’t

already have

an excuse for.

The heart has to

put up with a lot

it doesn’t like

which is why

we keep it

locked

deep down

where pride

and several other

vanities tell it stories

we would be ashamed of

were they true. But

dumbstruck

or just dumb,

I come to you now

with what’s left

and offer you this:

take whatever

is good, whatever

is of value in these

veins & muscles

and make of them

something useful

which is all

I ever wanted

to give

to you.