A figure can be seen
standing on the point of a cliff
with its arms outstretched to either side.

If it is planning to jump
it would do well to do so soon
as already would-be rescuers 
are scrambling up the paths
to stop it.

The figure may instead be preparing
to fly, but no one can be sure
until they are close enough to see
what flex is in play,
how the knees
are set for movement,
whether or not
there are feathers or webs along the arms
to facilitate flight. 

The figure may of course
be planning to do
none of the above, is just
standing there.

But that’s not good enough for us.

Down here we exist
immersed in a churning need
to assign meaning 
to unfamiliar sights.

To treat them
as omens, to create a need
to interact 
with sights and sounds we misunderstand
in such ways
that we can tell ourselves,
with great conviction,

that we are critical
to maintaining reality. 

They unfolded
their copper wings.

Blue gems
threaded throughout.

Daylight against 
dark-polished amber.

Until now you did not remember 
that you’d seen them before
your birth, had stopped believing
they had ever existed.

Did you ever imagine
they would still be like this,
that they would again appear to you —
lowly you, humble you — 
in such sunset-wreathed glory?

Now they are here
for the moment and if no one
believes you tomorrow
you will again doubt yourself;
as many times 
as it has happened,
rediscovery will be
a new blessing each time. 

Too far out from the dock now
to think there’s safety
to be gained by turning back.

Forward, drop anchor, or founder:
those seem to be the only choices.
Go on toward the horizon or stop

and wait for rescue, or stop
and sink right here and see
who notices, if anyone does. 

Or — we could turn back. 
It’s no safer but it’s movement
and we’d know what’s waiting for us

where we’d be headed. Can still just see
the grey line of coastal hills
back there, where there’s everything

we’ve left behind. No real comfort there, 
if you are asking; you shouldn’t need
to ask. We could remake it, you plead.

Sure, we could. But there’s all this ocean
to ponder. And what’s that ahead of us
rising out of the water? We should wait and see

lest we choose too rashly. Everything
we’ve chosen to this point has been
reckless. Prudence now, even if it drowns us,

would suggest a pause. At any rate
I’m not sure we can turn back. The wind
is shifting. There may be a storm coming. 

We have come so far. We have nothing
back there that won’t keep or be passed on
to better folks if we do not return. 

Whatever is rising ahead of us
is breaking the surface. We should at least
see what it is before making a choice. 

On this day in history
a perfect person was killed
who should have lived longer.

A perfect person died in childbirth;
the perfect baby she bore 
died even before she did.

Think of all the perfect people
who never grew old. Ones
you knew, ones you’ve only heard of,

and ones whose existence 
means nothing to you still
as you march on into your own twilight.

Do you matter as much as they did
for the short time they were here?
How could you know?

Screed upon screen upon screed
of near-animal demands at full voice.

Involuntary opposition every time
at first blush of what we are sure we loathe.

We rise from bed into this
and only tumble out of this when we sleep.

If we notice a truer life in our yards
in the night, it’s only when we look up

from the steel glow of our own devices.
Out there are worlds cooperating 

beyond our wars. An opossum slips by
and a coyote chooses not to hunt

as it trots through in tandem with a mate.
What on earth can we think of

to say of such things
that is neither for nor against?

Measure once, cut twice:
terrible advice
for a carpenter,

perfect advice
for becoming
a bully.

We took Duncan’s measure early. 
Smart mouth, weak chin.
None of us were carpenter’s kids

except for him;
I was more like him
than not,

but had somehow
gotten tight with
the rich right crowd.

I grabbed Duncan
while Dickie swung
and Carl and Nick laughed.

He tried to get away
but I held on to his coat.
He hit the ground face first

when he pulled free of the sleeves
and momentum took him down.
He got up bleeding; we let him run.

Measure once, 
cut twice. Dickie
got him again

the next day as we
watched and laughed
from across the quad.

Duncan didn’t come
to the class reunion.
(Not many of us did.) 

I don’t know what happened to him. 
I only know
what has happened to me:

forever staring at my past,
getting smaller
in my memory.

Can’t say that
I’ve grown much
since. 

Anyone musing
about burning their hands
on fire itself or even upon
the stones stacked carefully
around flames
ought to consider
the follies of what they feel
and how long it may take to gain
skin and feelings back
after the burn has ended.

You’ll be rubbing
the scars long after
they were supposed
to have healed.
You may never get
all of the sensations
you once gloried over 
to fill back in.

You do not have the vision
to see the whole truth of a beach
between tides
where the holes left behind
where children once dug
are slowly vanishing,
their walls seeping and crumbling
until they are full
of forgetting.

You have no ears sharp enough
to understand all the messages of wind
between trees in a forest.
The sound you thought was music
is gone now and all that’s left
is silence over
the browning green
on the ground below.

You have no tongue
upon which you can savor
all the lingering tastes
of a grand feast.
It’s bitter and foul
in between your teeth
and you won’t approach
anyone this way face to face.

You ought to know
that what seems grand
as you approach flames
held fast in their stone ring
is just certain fatality couched in 
gentle warmth from a safe distance,
looking like celebration
until it can consume all.

To say it will be
short and sweet
is to lie to yourself.

You know this now.
Whatever comes out of your mouth
will be neither. 

You can’t use the words
without turning away
from the mirror inside.

Nonetheless: you lie and say it.
Short and sweet. You are glad
you never had kids. Glad

you never became the doctor
your parents and teachers 
said you should be. 

Glad you have never
succumbed
to the storm within,

that you stood strong
against the long and sour 
and are still here.