Holding Smoke

This dialogue binds me. It reaps
barriers from my shore,
releasing smoke over outstretched
water. Unopposed, it leads them

to me, makes them free
to stride or stumble through
this distance, whichever
gives them comfort. I resist

this movement and react, falling
back to its center, conceding only

dense borders. I distrust these
mappers’ goals for this space. They
take all for themselves,
surveying beaches and shaking trees

to measure out sections that
present the most pleasant view.
But if they find the center’s
weeds, refuse remaining after fire

that shed this place of its leaves,
of its eaves, of its shelter,
then they’d flee. They’d right
ships and sail into belligerent

seas, if they did see it, if I
revealed it, if I released it.

Cello (Original)

I carry the delusion of new worlds with me. I see strings that weave between
dimensions to fasten the planes. The final emerging
shape, with its elegant creases and folds,
blossoms like a paper crane.

Tendons in my shoulders are ropes
twisted to coiling. I focus on easing their tension and
close my eyes. As I descend into sleep, I wander through a darkened plain
to find a free-standing door. It leads to a bare room with eight sides,

an entrance at each wall and no ceiling. A familiar scent of oak compels me
to open one door, so I enter and see a standing figure. An anonymous
body and face, yet I’m convinced I know you. You must be what lingers
between notes of music. I swear every time we meet I forget

I’m dreaming. Your silken hair, our laced fingers, the heat of breath
so present, until sheets tighten as I roll to my side. Now I

am in the plain. We are standing feet apart and I strain to discern
your features. The inner door locks between us,
followed by the outer, and the plain dissolves as I open
my eyes to dark. I shut them

quickly, striving to retrieve the memory, but it disperses
in this natural air. I can’t remember where we met,
and I hadn’t learned your name. Still, I hear the strings
vibrating as you draw near.

Making Coffee

Bearded man with gloves,
glasses, thick clothes, and a dog
is gathering sticks.
On the fifth branch he pauses,
breathes the wind, and starts again.

Autumn

I check my watch—
it displays seven o’clock.

When I lift my eyes from the curb,
I pause,
    held by stenciled orange mountain
crests before a wall of smeared charcoal.
Cream-pink streaks hang,
like a babe had stretched rain to cotton.

I can tell no drift to the clouds,
though a breath of air warms me.
Each bush and tree beams
colors deep like swelling fruit.
Wings dip and turn,
    mixing and stirring the light.

The world halts, then exhales.

Mayflies

Patterns slip and swell on water,
lanterns for mayflies—
white bodies alive
above prisms of glass and light.

I feel their breaths
press silk against me,
and mays that touch the pond
are swallowed.

Consider Me Lucky

At once the tacit bell rings and scatters
the crowd into hysterics, prompting self-anointed

captains to assemble their supporters in file.
One boss’s subjects align themselves, chins rubbing necks,

ranked in order of declining worth. With a pivot, the shepherd
draws them through corridors and in the cramped room

where I swagger content in behind. As I enter, I pick the corner
farthest from the plastered grins left open

gaping at the honcho. An avant-garde liberal and state-of-the-art
radical, he’s the axiomatic skipper of this ship. And to consecrate

the daily session, he wears his dress shirt unbuttoned and untucked,
exposing the tee that says, “We are building people.”

Drops

I barely notice
my face in palms,
the spotted warmth
across my shoulders,
my crouched and naked body,
the rolling word "never."

Snaps of water surround.