Any Other Way

Should we sit on far sides of the river
to remember that we are in love,
or think that one of us is fallen, and buoyed
at last amid a thousand petals
in the customary way?

Should I want you to be surrounded
by hungry and lawless things
or lost in the endless repetition
of a black wood,
that I might fight my way to you?

Would the random growth of cells
or mouse-trap chromosomes that
stiffen memory and my marrow
somehow stitch our hearts?

My love, don't be afraid.
I am yours more for our convention,
for desire's wildly ambitious and weary march,
for the urchins of habit
and the fog of familiarity.

For you, I light a sentinel beacon
many fathoms across the blue.
This is the way of a poet
who gives his heart to you. 

Long Distance

You are from here and I am from there,
we drive again from your state to mine.
We've been together four years
and we have worn out eight tires.

You moved down here and we'll move back there,
we give up our places to find each other.
The sweet rain outside falls like tears,
the engine internally combusts my heart.

Though weary, we'll miss it, somewhere down the road
when together forever we sit in the house,
the only traveling there a pitter-patter
of the four little feet of one local mouse.

Breakfast

I am much more inclined
to meditate on attachment
in the last few bites
of an English muffin
than at the beginning.

Hunger is like that,
hard to let go of
when it is whole.

Clouds

Horsetail clouds comb the blue bowl above
and I half-remember some insight about them.
Something about change
and their dear and wide view.

But they have no eyes, or if they do,
no mind to map the rivers and towns below.
As I age, my memories dry and fade.
I am drawn across the air a while,
sweeter for the less I know.

The Office

The cold circle of the moon
cuts me out of bed like a cookie,
bakes me under the hot stars,
sets me out to cool in the dark,
dots me with my own wan eyes
before setting over the horizon.

Tomorrow, I want the sun to ask
if there are any more of those.

Captain

I want to be the kind of father
who died crab fishing in the Aleutians
in a perfect storm.
Afterwards, he was known for the following:
1) Saving a deckhand at the last moment
2) His view of the world which was that
we can make our own way no matter what,
and that we can speak our peace with God.

My son's mood on the plane home today
makes the deck slippery again.

Present

Paper put beside the presents crinkles
as I wait for my gift to be opened,
and I wonder if he will like it and if
my expression will be alright, easy, light,
appreciative and not arrogant.

I open a gift not too carefully, not too quickly,
taking care to appear interested and excited.
But I am excited, this is Christmas,
where I learned of the simple joy of gifts,
and waiting breathlessly for dawn at age six.

I think I over-analyze these days.
I am like a wrapped gift
with no one to enjoy the exchange.