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. 

I’m working
to spite 
the Furies.

I’m working
though their swords
keep swinging

and this is no
Bowie song — 
their blades cut.

I’m working
to get to the top
of what’s crumbling

so I may chance
the slide down
and hope to end up

walking away
at the bottom
while dusting it off

as a bad day
at the desk where
half my work

is already simply
praying for survival
and the other half

is about how
to settle the prayer
like a blanket

over others
so no one gets
too cold or is crushed

in the aftermath 
of the hideous,
inevitable fall. 

I’m working
to answer a call
that’s been unanswered forever.

I’m working 
to distract myself
from staring at my torn hands,

noticing they are
empty, imagining
how much work it will take

to fill them now
that they are so full
of holes.

I’m working
to shake it off.
Delusion is only useful

after work.
I’m working. It’s all
work and no play

and the only sword
I have won’t stay
in my hand long enough

to fend off a blow.
I’m working. Hold my beer.
Watch me work

Watch me work
as long as I can.
I am a dull boy,

it’s fine with me

if you turn away or yawn.

I’m used to it by now. 

Samson,
they’d say,

how your hair does float
like a river in noon light.

Samson, 
they would say,

you look almost Biblical.
Must be the name.

Samson,
they say,

looked like a promise,
raged like a broken oath.

Samson,
some say,

took a lion apart,
pushed down a temple.

Samson
has said

all he bears is the name
and none of the strength;

blind forever now,
betrayed by love. 

Samson
asks for a rest

from our expectations.
What do I look like,

he asks, some
inexhaustible myth?

Where is my hair?
What of the waves

I used to carry, what of
beauty, what of the real me?

Samson,
we say, your hair

is a river at high noon
now, a piece of mystery.

Samson, 
exalted, made into song;

Samson cries,
all I asked for was love. Not this.

Elsewhere is the place
I mostly want to be
The word I utter most often
The thought I hold up front

Here is all the ruin
and the whip snap of the storm
The broken glass in a bare foot
The dawning sense of wound

Elsewhere is the house
I wish was still standing
Open or closed as needed
Insured and strong and mine

Here is what I want to say
I have missed the train to elsewhere
The wait for the next one is so long
I don’t know if I can stay here

A crow
with open wings
on the neighbor’s roof.

A beagle mix 
I do not recognize, trotting alone
down the far sidewalk.

Tracks
of squirrel, cat, maybe others
in new snow.

Cars parked in front
of homes with their curtains drawn
until their mornings begin.

I forget, sometimes,
that this is also a true face
of my country,

marvel at how many
have found a way
to sleep soundly here,

even in daylight. Even
as peace is failing.
Even as rough beasts

prevail, movement
apparently free from care
and caution continues.

I am afraid
to step out. Deal
with it, I tell myself.

Like the crow on the roof
with raised wings, look
bigger than you are.

The stray dog who 
trots free to spite the law
says, deal with it.

The tracks say
deal with it, be gone 
before you are seen. 

The houses and cars 
say deal with it; safety exists,
if only temporarily.

I am the fool here,
the crazy guy, the contrary
telling you what I feel. 

It doesn’t make me
less glad for peace
outside my windows

that I am
on edge
most of the time.

I just long
to sleep in
more often.