Daily Archives: March 7, 2016


What else is there
for him to say except

that an ending can be as lovely
as any beginning

that not all endings are
also beginnings

that some things end and
there’s beauty in recalling

what is gone
and shall not return

He says these things
in fear of the next morning

that he knows
will not come for him

says these things
as the sky lowers toward him

says these things
as the light begins to flee from him

says these things as if they were

They are not spells and
there’s no magic anywhere

that can resolve this ending
into a fresh start 

But he lies as always
as if it will be true in time to save him

as if truth were as much to be feared
as ending 

as if truth mattered at all to the narrative
happening here


Pipe Music

My daddy used to
ride a motorcycle
long ago. Put it away
before I could get 
enamored of it but
I knew and loved that
pipe music
almost before I could

Pulled it
out again
only after he retired,
thinking, I guess,

I was safe enough
by then from
two-wheeled lust
for him to throw a leg over,
get back on. Later his hips

messed up even that
short run for freedom, 
and the bike was sold

before I could speak up for it —

now, I’ve never owned a road bike
and only ridden small ones a few times
in the woods and then only
when my daddy wasn’t around

but somehow

I dance to pipe music more these days

and somewhere in the dark 
beyond my father’s eventual

departure, I can see myself
throwing a leg over
something big and loud and
noisy and all mine

before my own bones tell me no,
before I become
deadened to that rough skirling

before I forget him completely.