Chapbook 2004

Just For This

A thousand three 

Thunder rolls

Behind, in front,

echoes back, boiling.                          

I'm sitting on the screen porch

watching the lightning

counting the thunder

on a chair pulled from the kitchen

just for this. 

Light cracks so close

it seems the earth will break

before I reach a thou-.

Sitting with the lights out

listening to the thunder

watching for the lightning

feeling the rain mist

blown through the screen. 

Car alarm cries and

whines.  Old jazz floats

from the house 

Watching the trees bend

blown by the same wind

shaking the windows      

making the rain march

down the street 

A branch somewhere,

a wire.  Music stops.

Street goes dark

Blown by the same wind

that sucked me from my dry room

left me on the screen porch

sitting on my screen porch.

Sitting on my screen porch

just for this.    

Giving of Names

To our sons of course

but also to each other

secret names we use at breakfast

and names for at lunch

the names our friends hear us use—

I don’t need to say them here.

But maybe even you’ve

never heard some aloud, like

girl I love today like a bowl of dark cherries and

secret place where I hide from all knowledge

twenty year wife I married this morning

My name for you as you drink black coffee

and my secret name for when you spoon in the hazelnut

that even I cannot pronounce.

Names that rarely escape my lips

The names for the ways we love each other—

            love that gets up on Saturday to feed the cats

love that does the dishes

            love that stands beside and dries

            love that works shit jobs so I can do a little less

            holding hands while our son sleeps love

            and cooking Sunday night for Tuesday love.

            Love that buys CDs only the other will like

            love that defragments all night long.

love that dances in the living room and needs no music

and it is good to smell beach salt on you love.

 Names that rarely escape my lips

            soft one who makes me want to live forever 

            wonder of hip where my hand rests while you sleep

            owner of smiles I cannot measure

            my strength.

And names so secret I cannot tell myself

for they make me miss you too much

while you’re still here,

incantations

that once uttered

won’t let me say goodbye

to go to work

go to the next room

names that ripple like water, silk and yellow roses

names I dare not name this here, this now.

The Heat

The heat of this city

attends without breeze,

suggests that stairs

cannot be climbed,

dries my shirts in minutes

though not the one I wear,

and leaves my piss

almost orange

though I drink

beyond measure.

The heat of this city

drives away mosquitoes,

plagues, and all things

with native intelligence.

I remain, contracted,

beneath the slow fan

with those I teach

or try to teach.

They are bright enough,

but heat clouds our eyes,

glazes our ears

that think they hear

but buzz with emptiness

of mosquitoes on holiday

while we remain

seeking intellect.

Outside the school

cows walk in the street

urged by their keeper

not knowing why

or which way

the market.