It’s hopeless, you know —

everything is
pointless, there’s no
fault pinned on the right backs;

who is in charge, who pulled the pin,
who do I see about this, there’s no
good, what is this poison we’re being fed,
what is in the water, why are you
shooting me now and aiming later
or claiming hate, what’s this smoke
unchained to an obvious fire;

how is it that the news
has become an exquisite corpse,
a new exquisite corpse daily, and
why are you staring into such dead eyes 
while asking for solace — 

stop. All the same while,

people ask and talk
and cry about all these same things — 
people you’ve never met.  Let me
take you to them. When you meet them
you’ll embrace, you’ll clasp hands…then,

slowly at first
but with gathering, giddy speed,

you should stop calling
this pointless world
hopeless

and set to work.

Keeping our eyes focused upon

trees that have turned on 
their other street-signal colors,
that have passed green for go,
gone deep
into slow, caution,

stop. Noting

that it’s not far now
to no color at all on those limbs,
save for here and there
an odd shot of rust 
that will not fall. Noting

that it’s cooling at night, though
not quite enough for the furnace;
thermostats are yet untouched, although
the batteries
have been checked.

We’re bracing for car care,
yard care, window sealing,
pulling out layers of clothes
and warner bed linens…now and then

watching the faces of those
who panhandle 
on nearby streets,
mouths tight
upon cheap cigarettes
cupped in still bare,
sun brown hands;

blessing them now and then
with thin coins and thinner bills
handed out the car window
before driving away.

This is how we winter,
how we warm ourselves.

There’s so much mud, so much 
shit. Nothing’s clean in there, nothing 
stays clean for long around it.

Sometimes the only thing to do
is root in there nose first and
start making your way to clear:

get all the mold and debris
and wet wet soil stirred into
a death-leftover soup.

Poke and prod 
at the channel,
break it up,

dig. It stinks, it’s vile, 
it’s got its share of wrong — 
and man, that’s yours? That’s

really in there, flopping in the 
ick, flipping in the muck? Get a hold 
of that and get it out

of there, fast.  It might bite,
might have venom — get it out,
get it out! Watch that water start

to burble clear. Stay with it,
clearing, dredging, deepening
the bed down to gravel. Till

you can see the bottom. Till you
can’t smell it flowing. Till you’d
drink from it, till you’d offer anyone

a drink from it.

in shops after closing
goods speak of their origins
in sweatshops
fine workspaces
or deep mazes
of monstrous factories

to speak of
where they might go from here 
is taboo

as this is one moment
they have to be themselves
before they are pawed
and examined
then purchased
then owned

and then
changed by ownership

into something else 

whether they become
utilitarian
and neglected
eventually broken and 
discarded or

heirlooms
precious holders
of promise
and memory

ownership changes them

charges them with others’ energy
that is not what they entered with

and that will take away
more or less
their own 

so while they can
they speak to one another
in dark shops
about where they came from
and what they are 

taking their moment
before
we change them

into ours

They are sitting on a bench
at one end of a long room.

They are staring at a far-end door
and speculating on where it may lead.

They offer thoughts: it may lead
outdoors, to another room, to a hallway.

They are only sure of one thing:
wherever it leads is clearly elsewhere. 

They cannot tell if it is locked or even,
possibly, ajar; this lighting is so terrible, who could say.

It seems so easy: walk over and see,
possibly leave this long dark room,

but someone has written
names of all their ex-lovers in Vaseline

on this polished stone floor and thus covered
the distance between here and there in hazard.

They are terrified to slip and fall
on such a surface. They aren’t getting any younger

and in this light they might
hit their head upon stone and bleed out unnoticed.

So they remain on the bench.
The room keeps getting darker. 

Somehow it seems
that the room is getting longer as well.

He was bawling
as he crossed the line
to make it out
of October alive

as humble as a clock
with two broken hands
for whom time had stopped
beyond a dim recognition of its passage
a small whirring at his center

and nothing more

He had not planned to see November
but a single puff of wind
caught a maple tree perfectly
and moved it in a way he’d not considered
when thinking of reasons to stay 

When it swayed
a handful of red leaves
clinging to one branch end
lifted into a sunbeam
almost as a hand
might rise to bless one
in dire need of 
attention to their wounds

and while he never in general
was much given to seeing
such obvious and mundane moments
as signs
and indeed understood that nature
isn’t here for humanity in any sense
at all

he still found that rise
in the small spray of red
to be reminiscent enough
of a past dim moment of comfort
that for one moment he felt
more than the small whirring of time
in his broken movement

and thus moved
he broke down and cried
and chose
to make it through October
and at least see November arrive

to see what it might bring