this moment, whether seized or released, 
is all that matters.

the sun on the shore, the sun silvering surf,
the sun on your skin, the sun on your mind;

that bouquet, that kick of fruit and wine

mingled with dark smoke;

this one brief pause

in a long climb toward a summit; the

pleasure snatched
from pain’s arms. 

this moment is yours. this moment is you,
is all there is:

a moment of quickened light

where you get to choose

to either forego regret
or let it inform your next breath 

and all the ones 
after that; 

this moment knows you,

knows your answer 

before you can

breathe a word.

— for Betsy, 6/17/2015

Click to hear a recording of this poem with music

A noise inside me seems
to be my natural tongue
struggling to be understood
through my fog of upbringing
and schooled-in language.

I don’t know what to think,
who to thank or blame. All I hear
when I try to tune in to it is
a nagging rattle. I can’t turn it off,
like hail on a tin roof

going on all day and night.
(Hail never lasts that long in real life,
though. It’s more like a storm
of lost marbles falling from charcoal clouds,
slowly wrecking my home.)

Exhausted from trying
first to understand it and then
to block it out, I seek the aid
of anyone who might speak this
natural tongue, translate it for me,

teach me how to respond.  Is it you,
is it you, is it you? I ask everyone
I let get close enough
to hear it echoing from within.
Most look at me

as if every word from my mouth
was hail on their own roofs,
or a storm
of lost marbles tearing 
their own safety down.

The few who stay
don’t understand it either, 
but they understand the nature
of shelter: how temporary any of it
really is, how much we need

to hold onto each other
when we find ourselves together
under those crumbling eaves.
We pull close and speculate
on what it all might mean.

It helps. Sometimes,
when I am not alone with it,
the noise inside me even begins
to sound like music. Together we try,
raggedly, to sing.