In the long park divided by the Merrimack Canal
I sit on a bench watching high school students
dream of some perfect life ahead
and the water smoothing past without a sound
unaware of the turbine and the turbulence to come.

The pigeons seem predisposed not to matter
but there is one mangy seagull circling effortlessly
trying to entice me into some meaningful conversation.
I’ll have none of that.
A young lady in purple jeans and a black t-shirt cackles
as she passes by me with 11 of her closest friends.
She caws to the seagull and he flies away.

The dark water continues toward the Boott
the students toward the many treats downtown,
and my thoughts toward the conclusion
childhood is never really over.
The seagull ruffles back down from the heavens
and I laugh.

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the noses of strangers are stranger than strangers
in the abstract — in the concrete they make indentations
when it’s still unset, but then it hardens and the noses break
on contact with the concrete. the eyes are separated
by the bridge, and the nostrils pulsate with unconscious breath

the noses of friends are strange too, but not so strange
because they are missed,  an abstract notion of identity
imperceptible in the seeing until they are so seen
they are completely invisible — like love

another nose, another person, strange, familiar
the distance between the eyes warps and distorts
in the seeing — in the unseeing — in the wondering
who is this person? what do they know?

the last snow is melting
over your grave
you’ve been there long enough
to grow cold — but not so cold
as my heart without you

tomorrow, it will rain again
i want to take you from the earth
dry you off, bring life back to you
let you bring life back to me

but i know you belong to the  warm embrace
of earth and what comes next for beautiful creatures

Indian apples are ripe, dipped in fire
this is the baked memory on the clean counter.
The dragonflies buzz about the birch and fern
unaware of eyes or clouds or blue skies
unaware of tomorrow — how do they learn?

An orange flour blooms upon the summer’s squash,
an inferno of fattened youth to be sautéed.
The salamander gambols out from beneath rotted pine
acquainted with the deep brown humus
acquainted with the standing pool nearby
— and still unknowing, why?

A neither-tadpole-nor-a-frog, belegged and betailed
impales the still of deadened water with his head.
Between the stalks of corn, yards away or less, the snake
glides between, under through and back
glides toward, away then underneath
— is this the relationship between the living and the dead?

An apple tree grows on the hill like a prophecy
of how sweetness falls from heaven
rolls down and down and down to stop with no Earthly concern
and rot away in the midst of the unknowing
to rot away beneath the feet of the uncaring
to rot away with fetid breath and be forgotten too.

a body turns a corner
and the other bodies stay behind
the darkness becomes soft hands
to carry a body down a street
and then all the way home
wherever home may be

of the many ways men part
this common turning seems likeliest
and sad — always sad if considered
too deeply or too closely.

then the body is gone, other bodies are left
to strive for peace of soul and pleasure
— a constant chore founded in the choice
to believe, to always believe, there is something more.

there are those too weak to endure the work
of faith, for those cowardly fools devoted to their cult of truth
there is no belief, there is no choice
there is only inquiry.

What darkness is there around that bend?
What does the darkness hold for men?
Where does the light go? When will it return?

Question after question asked,
until all peace and pleasure  recede
into the everyness of every day — leaving fools
to whither into a forgetfulness that faith may be
and maybe warranted if there is love.

He was crying.

I sat next to this thin stranger with dark hair,  watching him cry face down on the smooth polished bar.

He was crying alone in a room full of strangers more concerned with the soccer match going on on the television. He cried and cried — the steel-soft cry soundless but for his is taut breath and the anguished undulating ache of his soul wracking his body with unquenchable grief.

I reach over and touch his shoulder, “I’m so sorry brother. I”m so so sorry.”

I stand awkwardly, reach over and pull him to my chest, this stranger, this man who is my brother, I have no words. I offer nothing to him but the consolation of touch, and he accepts it because he has no strength to do anything else.

Seconds turn to a minute, and he pulls away, “uh… I… thank you. I’m sorry I lost it.”

“It’s ok.”

“I knew, I don’t know how I knew, but I knew,” he said.

I nodded, “Everything doesn’t always have an explanation.”

“My name’s Che,” he offered his hand.

“Good to meet you,” I shook his hand and said my name.

“Jerry,” I yelled for the bartender, “Che and I need two shots of Hennessy.”

The shots poured in front of us, I picked mine up, “To your brother, may he be at peace until you meet again.”

“For Joe,” Che said simply and pulled back the shot.

the world, she is so large
as I slide her green skin

i search for hands
for feet and know
i have one foot — that’s all

love, is that what this is?
this footless, handless hungry life?

i search for eyes
for hands and i believe
it’s time to go from where I’ve been

love, is that what this is?
this wandering with home upon my back?

i search for home
for safe hard shell
i have no words, i can not tell

the world, she is so large
as I slide her bones

all the world, she burns
hot and wild with desire
for the impending ash

the muskrat chitters
and intones an incantation
— a mystic call for darkness

as the fires burn
the embers rise
the song becomes the stars

all the world, she dances
hot and wild with desire
for the heretofore

the muskrat chitters
and intones an incantation
— a mystic call for rhythm

as the fire burns
the embers rise
the stars become the sea

all the world, she loves
hot and wild with desire
for the holiest of holies

the muskrat chitters
and intones an incantation
— a mystic call for touch

as the fire burns
the embers rise
the sea becomes the soul
the world, she burns
the muskrat rides upon the turtles back

You, there believing the sky is blue
as you burn the flesh away from tender youth.

I will not be the scapegoat for another day
or the sacrifice on the altar to save the sun from sin.

I will not hide in the closet alone in the dark
unaware how large the moment is for fear of being found.

You, there believing the stars are not like you
as you burn brilliantly awash in heavenly truth.

I am no missile aimed, no missile soaring, no missile
striking out across a tiny world in search of a man eating a salad.

I was not warped by the words to come
or the words unspoken that have passed away and can not be.

you there believing I will ensue
as you warp the space and forbid the world run loose.