Old Poem From Tomales

The buffeted bay

it's waves twenty feet 

from peak to peak

give sweet shake to my knees

and care not for resistance met

holding the voice of the sun

in a long cold sentence.


What Happened Tonight

I apprehended Quevedo's blood red moon

first through the words of Borges,

and tonight through my own eyes. 

Only one moon was apprehended, yet it died twice.

(I cannot quote Borges precisely, and I turned my attention to dinner).

In our fear we miss the feast,

this one that Death has brought us to.

This brief and insignificant joy

that fades to memory again and again, 

squandered by most (myself included), in exchange

for some cheap or easy certainty.

Without gratitude for Death,

who is surely our host,

what humor can our selves, our ideas

hold if they must live forever?


What track is empathy’s?

Bare recognition

suited to a purpose, or 

love dashing an idea.

The ocean does not suffer such,

nor does the sand.

On Metrics

What standard of beauty 

Do you hold?

A pretty face,

the perfect curve

Of a lip,

or a hip's beckon?

The flower blooming

In ecstasy,

Or perhaps

The bomb booming 

in rapture?

Or do you have in mind

Some vaster space

That quickens beauty's face 

As it drops all appearance

And now,

And then again. 


Early January

Notes From the Polar Vortex


When a Great Lake shows

imperfect orbs of dirty ice,

And a small one gives

hydraulics a new expression,

Those afflicted together

huddle for warmth, not love.


The amorous face will appear here,

And this is one of love's flaws,

Or love's suffering of idolatry.


Water and everything (with the exception

of my meager suffering) 

do not seek  the appearance of love.