"Highway In Autumn" - A Poem

When it came it came suddenly, and short—
something lonesome and deep,
calling to him from deep in his heart,
something involving highways and a few autumn leaves.

He wanted to transport to those places of distance.
Wine gave the illusion of that.
Rain on a windowsill did, too.
But always he woke on the same couch wearing the same shoes.

If only he could stay there, outside the window,
chilly autumn clouds, walking that highway with his arms
wrapped in self-embrace, a few notes of music lilting in the air,
coming from somewhere—

"New York, Mid-Afternoon" - A Poem

It was one of those wet-hot days,
bright brief summer shower
soaked every inch of concrete
as if the sky were cleansing the sins
like scabs off the city's skin.

Muggy. Puddles everywhere, reflecting gold.
Women staring like I was the long-lost brother
they'd been trying to find for years.
Deliberate footwork, pointing my toes around curbs and cabs.
Self-conscious.

Suddenly I realized I'd sailed from January to June.
For a moment I was lifted to a higher realm—
a kind of reshaping of existence.
Where do I go from here? I thought.
Then it was gone.

"The Judgment" - A Poem

At the gate of heaven he was approached by angels,
seven of them, with large wings that flapped slowly
and created a thick, warm wind.
He stretched his neck,
looking up at golden bars which rose as high as he could see.
Clouds and a golden spray of light covered everything.

An angel asked the others, “And what of this one?”
“Yes,” they responded, “he is to be judged now.”
“And did he lie?” the first angel asked.
“Yes,” they responded, “he lied.”
“And did he steal?” the first angel asked.
“Yes,” they responded, “he stole.”
“And did he cheat, and swear, and hate?” the first angel asked.
“Yes,” they responded, “he did all those things.”
“And was he selfish, and lustful, and proud, and gluttonous, and full of envy?”
“Yes, they responded, “he was all those things.”
“And did he love?” the first angel asked.
“Yes,” they responded, “he loved.”
“Then part ways, and let him enter.”

"Childhood" - A Poem

Eight years old.
I think it was my first day outside alone,
to explore the world.
I didn’t get farther than the poplar in our backyard,
its leaves bending low and open,
broad-backed and beckoning,
so green and desirable, a kind of wet and sticky
glisten from morning.
I supposed the Sandman had visited it, too.

Well I could wipe it clean.
And in the meantime unclothe this world.
So I approached, blessing myself,
and rubbed the green green leaves,
rubbed them greedily with my soft, plump fingers,
feeling it, feeling the sweat, the soft spine spreading
over its hidden underbelly, the lighter, paler part.
I could taste its essence with my hands.

Then I grew embarrassed and suddenly ran back inside,
the screen door on the porch slamming behind me
with a violent echo.
So I had learned the world.
For the rest of the day, I could not get
that green off my hands,
though I scrubbed and scrubbed
with the certainty of the experienced.

"The Wanderers" - A Poem

We walked out into the snow.
It came down through the air,
straight down and at times from angles,
hitting our warm faces, wetting our noses.

The road was slippery and steep
so we held onto each other and sort of shimmied down.
Above us streetlamps watched
silently like silent hovering angels, their quiet halos
spreading out into the darkness,

dividing the space into two halves,
separating truth from falsehood,
all that is known and all that is unknown.

At the bottom of the hill we found a little gazebo,
and we sat there, inside the silent womb of night
with our hands in each others’ coat pockets,

waiting for something extraordinary,
waiting for significance.

A Few Haiku

lunch after breaking up
she reaches out
to touch my hair


snow falling outside
my reflection
in the window


table for two
waiting alone
at the restaurant


the rocks don’t seem to mind
the waves
spilling over them


following the red hat
I wait for her to turn
and wave

"The Drunkard" - A Poem

All across the night he stole,
softly and swiftly,
delicate as a doe,
his hands chained at the wrists.

He tried to hold a stranger, a bum,
a neighbor and an old lover.
But he frightened them with the red in his eyes
and instead he swam with the smoke in the sky,

Pluming into the darkness,
as if it lit up the stars themselves
from a great distance,
shrouding into infinity all that is abstract.

The bricks in the walls became his friends,
he rubbed the red stone with his fingers.
God, he could taste the mortar and dust!
It whispered to him and shattered the illusion of detachment.

And in that deep umbra of blackness,
the perfume of his soul—so fragile now—
lilted in the air somewhere between his mind
and the moon’s.