Sunday, November 18, 2018

going to cambridge

 as the outbound train
 crossed longfellow bridge
 i lost hold of my anger
 watched it drop
 into the charles
 carried off to the sea

 next morning a november frost
 illuminated the side streets
 in yellows and oranges
 a quiet grief settled in
 the empty lots where
 friendly buildings once stood

 but time does not count the times
 i've lost myself like this
 time provides for new times
 and small keepsakes

Sunday, October 28, 2018

going to oxford

 there was hardly any time
 to see the sights
 and anywhere we went
 i found a picture of you

 we filled up our space
 in a room of strangers
 drew new breaths
 from this old air

 we belong here
 nothing here belongs to us

 i belong here
 no one here belongs to me
 and for one day
 the future opened

Saturday, October 20, 2018

going to audubon circle

 i called you again
 got off the train at north station
 rode my bike straight to the bar

 and you came back
 slid onto the stool next to mine
 leaned into me and all around me

 i called you again
 and you took a bite from my arm
 left your mark on my neck

 and you came back
 armed with explanations
 wired for anger and shame

 i called you again
 didn't know how to say i'd wanted
 to come up that first night

 so we walked up beacon street
 all the way to coolidge corner
 air thick with may flowers

 when we ran out of hands to hold
 you hailed a cab
 i never called again

Friday, October 19, 2018

going to world's end

 waiting for the song to pick us up again
 a chorus to keep us company

 here we stand
 at the bus stop in the train station
 on pemberton pier
 on frigid nantasket beach
 the ocean's dull roar a variation on silence

 here we let go
 of the language on our fingertips

 the engine's hum the dry heat
 in the car going back on route 3A
 my skin cracks in unexpected places
 my bloody knuckles become a map
 in great chow's orange light

 here we stand here we let go
 waiting for the song to pick us up again

Thursday, October 18, 2018

going to englewood avenue

 when i burrow into the soft space
 below your collarbone
 press my eye against your breast
 i see your heartbeat

 shiny black
 as my grandfather's boots
 as your grandmother's ashes

 flood thrusts through the valves

 autumn ruby
 as your mother's lipstick
 as my father's lies

 periapt or pericard
 your ventricles' uniform thud echoes
 on my retina
 with white fire

Tuesday, October 9, 2018


 the orbweaver circumscribed
 her world
 on my porch

 from roof to railing
 her silk spans the sky
 catching dew
 as i caught your milk

Friday, September 28, 2018


 The second, the fifth, the fiftieth time
 he grants himself access.
 The third, the sixth time
 this happens in one day.

 The old plastic cups in his car.
 The veins on his forearm.
 The low skies; the unseasonable
 cold. The smell of burley
 tobaccos in his office. Scotch
 mints on his breath. His badge.

 His wit, his reputation.
 His family, your family.

 The key turning, the unspoken
 threat, the unspeakable.

 His anger, as if
 this was your fault.

 His laughter, as if
 nothing had happened.

Friday, September 14, 2018

Midnight Radio / Darmok

 When the walls fell
 we stood in awe,
 arms wide.

 There'd never been
 any trenches, any bayonets,
 any soldiers, any uniforms.

 All these drills
 for nothing; and yet
 a word now and
 we still stand to attention.