I see you
Sitting at the table across the patio
Air fresh with petrichor
And the curve of your thigh where
The cut of your running shorts creeps up
The thought of my hand on the bristle of your undercut
Your bassoonist’s chin

Ah!
All I can do is
Lift the amber ale to my hairy lips
Wipe the foam away
Wondering what might have been
We’re I other than I am
And you perhaps than you–
But I will never know so much
And I don’t know if I regret it

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The old wounds scrape open often enough with
My stumbling into walls and doorframes or
Brushing up against the thorns hiding under more flowers than you’d think
Ripping open again to bleed and stain my shirts and pants
That I then have to throw away because
I cannot show myself as I must appear
If such stains linger where they can be seen
So I do not need to pick at them to keep them open
Although my bitten fingernails are drying red beneath
And I certainly do not need
Other hands tearing at my still raw skin
Flaying me a little bit at a time

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As out into the world this verse does come,
I go, as I too rarely do, for some
Conversing lunch. I seldom brave the scrum
That comes with ev’ry workday’s afternoon,
And seldom spend the cash to fill a spoon
With soup or fork with meat from cattle hewn,
More often eating at my desk from home
Than daring from my office out to roam.
As staid and stolid, I am rightly known,
Both plain and proper such as well enough
Will serve those I am often near. Such stuff
As tales are made of, I from me rebuff,
For I know I am not of such a kind
As greater stories keep in their designs.

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That my coffee for the day is done, I know,
Yet still I reach for a cup I expect to find there and filled,
And when I do not find it because,
Responsibly, I rinsed it out and put it away,
The tide rolls in from the sea without which I cannot see,
And I cling tightly so that I am not swept away,
Small and weak against the world

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They gave me back the words I had sent to them,
Put their pens to my pen’s work
And written that they thought that they were good,
But
If some things could be changed,
They would be better yet,
And I thought for a little while before
I decided they were right

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A third of the way along, and
I have to wonder when the ceasefire will end
Or if it has already ended and
I have frown so accustomed to the voices
Of Smith and Wesson, of Ruger, and of Sig
That I no longer hear them as
They call to one another from afar,
Shouting out their responses to the
Putative Prince of Peace, in Whose Name
They stand forth proudly and
Spew their innards all around,
Leaving messes for others to clean because
They are, after all, only tools

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Now less than seven days remain,
And I continue to take pain
To my string of poems maintain
For less than one more week.

The exercise has done me good;
I had expected that it would,
The engine, knowing that I could–
But I should be more meek.

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The leopards lick their fangs in new delight
As gath’ring clouds choke out the fading light,
And we, bare monkeys, shiver in the night.
Who knew that orange shines so in their eyes,
Them serves as spice? There should be no surprise
On faces facing fountains spewing lies
That they are wet, made moist that they might feast,
Those spotted cats. No warnings yet have ceased
That such would be the fate brought by such beasts,
But though the klaxon sounded across years,
And though full many voiced aloud their fears,
No sound of thinking reached between the ears
Of those who shiver now and seek to cling
To falling trees as leopards ruin bring.

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I am remembering my dreams again–
Sleep-borne shadows of the world,
Not grand ambitions for how my life could go.
Those are long since gone away,
Others’ wills having worked in the world,
Mine never having been so strong,
No more true than the slumbering seemings
I have remembered more in these past days
Than for years that have pissed themselves away,
And I have to think that I was more at ease
When sleep was a blank
Than I am when it tries to show me something
I do not want to see.

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