It’s one of the fragile
hours.  If I look
at the clock, I’ll see it
shiver and splinter.  Any chance
of going to bed early will be
gone, and I’ll know that
at once and begin to pine
for the lost opportunity.

I’ll avoid that and keep the evening
intact.  No use destroying
a sacred object with attention
to the restraints we keep on it.
I will stay here, in the envelope
of the moment, here in the poem.

You will say I should not speak
of the poem, that to write of it
is to cheapen the art.  You may as well
ask the priest to never speak
of his office, how the presence of his God
is entirely revealed
in his movements
and in the words she speaks.

We do this for a purpose:
the writing, the chanting
are a shield against the shattering force
of the quotidian wave.  Shall I never
be allowed to say that this is how I stop
the day, that this is how
transient things are made permanent?
It’s a blasphemy I won’t abide: I proclaim
that I live to stay here in the poem and deny the clock
that crushes the moment beyond remembering,
and that the bed that called me earlier tonight
is still there, still calling, will be heeded
at some point, but first
the rituals that make the present safe
must be observed.

The art
of saying
the right thing:

hanging motionless
in speech-time,
conscious
of being
letter perfect.

A still
life of a breath
unit.

Enough?
That’s the wrong word —

should have stopped earlier,

as of course
it is.

There are men
I admire, men
I’d never want to be,
who live only in movies.

They swing hard and
shoot straight,
breathe easily
afterward.

I know
there’s nothing real
about such ruthless
competence

at movement
and violent
problem solving.
This is why I can stare

and gasp
at the reddening ease
of their lives,
their stone confident faces

and their swift clean up,
the knives stroked against
their thighs before they are folded
and put away for next time.

I am in thrall to this myth
of success at all costs
that leaves no trace upon
the successful.  The heroes

enter my life for a time
and leave me gasping
at such a possibility, even as I struggle
to get myself off the couch

and do something, anything
that might come to fruition
in a small way in my small life.
Give me one moment from your disdain

to love these killers,
to love the efficiency
of their elimination of obstacles
as I cannot seem to do it for myself.

It’s the only satisfaction I can find
in the steady drip of a faded life.
It’s a beauty, a terrible attractiveness
I abhor, but I cannot look away.

Want, want.

It’s repeated in every country
in full throat or just
buzzed through a close mouth.

Want, want — explosive
as a virgin who’s letting go,
a snake on a burning tree,
a trapped bird in the terminal, a badger
before the dogs and guns, want, want;
man living in the ruins for days
under slab and dirt and stench,
want, want; baby in a pool
sinking and closing down, want,
want. 

Giving up not in the cards
for anyone, none of us
immediately heeding a call to surrender
to the denial of want, want;
wanting is the principal thing,
longing for the ongoing
recreation of first burst
of air into waiting lungs
upon emergence into light and air;
the idea of need
only present in the awareness
of a future where it’s obvious
that want will not be satisfied
again. 

Want, want;
demand it and if it does not happen,
it is not for lack of desire
for we are always wanting
to be,
to breathe, to love
and live, yearning
as if life
were measurable,
tangible,
something we could hold
close
forever.

There’s a point
in the progress of crisis
where one becomes water
and falls out of one’s accustomed vessel
onto the floor.  One loses one’s shape
and spreads thin, covers
everything.  Soaking through
and darkening the fabric, one
becomes transformative — recreating
the surface appearance.  One will eventually
evaporate, of course: the cursed truth
of this process.  But, there’s a sliver lining
to the cloud one will rise and form
at that point: one will fall again
as water, fill the vessel and return to
original state.  One is never at a loss
for identity.  One changes
but is unchanged, emotionally
things may seem different but one
is still the same essence.  One should take care
to be comfortable with such changes, understanding
that stability is constant, no matter the form
one takes.