76/365: white room

white room
prison room
waiting room.
time coming.

maintaining balance.
precarious.

sharpened -
there is a crack there in the concrete.

the steel toilet
the cot
the mattress

this is enough for one more day -
one more hour

precarious.
waiting.
white.

75/365: gas station in rain

it's raining and the thing to do it seems
is to stand out in it
while the tank fills, pump clicking
gas rushing.

each drop that falls
strikes my hair like a light finger tap -
like someone standing behind me,
perhaps on a stool
tentatively touching here, then there,
unsure.

the other pumpers stand under the roofs
not watching-watching me -
but this is a thoughtful sprinkling
not a downpour.

it is worthy of consideration.

74/365: hands

cracked skin old man hands
fingers wrap an axe handle -
strength has not fled yet.

46/365: first hours

in the first hours of morning
they say the mind is soaked
in its own dew.

things are undone in the night:

bows untied, and the ribbon left dangling
from the back of a white dress;

there is a gap in the fence
where slats have been removed -
no twisted nails, rusted heads looking
in all directions -
the weathered wood is just gone.

are your feet wet?
is that a blade
of grass on your toe?
where were you walking to
when I saw/was you in the moonlight?

73/365: blueberry morning

how the year of poems
rolls over into a third year

"lower your standards" is the advice
I give, but have difficulty following

the blueberries cooked black
in my oatmeal
burst with purple blood.

this is a thing I can comment about
all the rest seems too large -
why we exist here on this rock,
why we exist at all.

a comment on blueberries bursting
and no comment on eternity.

71/365: lemon tree

who are you fooling,
with your laughable spines?

as if you could fight,
limbs bowed,
pregnant with fruits.

but you're a tough one, I give you that:
roots drilled into the rock -
the soil you dwell in a layer of volcanic dust.

I stand in your shade and look down
to the ungenerous waters of the sea -

hard men and women have stood here before,
and before, a thousand years,
peeling the yellow rinds
with their calloused thumbs and thick nails
appreciating the miracle you have performed
transmuting sunlight and wisps of moisture.


the juices dribbled from the corners
of their mouths and onto their fingers -
sourness on the verge of sweet
making them wince and smile

at the joke -
laughable
when peeled back.

survive,
and maybe make something beautiful

70/365: I knew you once

I knew you once
your smell
the cadence of your laugh

I brushed my hand
along the inside of your arm -
how your skin was like parchment

the sound of your footsteps
was an anticipation of joy.

Gone you are,
gone now all these years.