New Moon

 

          Whoosh, I whistle

as my bicycle rattles clear 

across Eastern Parkway

and the lights click

alizarin yellow

straight to red, but,

I went between clicks

where there's no light at all.

 

The city takes a breath

and everyone inhales

before she shouts, 

STOP

all over the wide road

(it's like seven lanes)

riding that ridge

of what will ultimately become

the top of Brooklyn.

 

So, it's quite impressive

to halt and enjoy it

if you are into

that sort of a thing.

Or, have the time

to be screamed

at by her

and a chorus

of drivers poised

to join her.

 

But before the maestro

can lift a finger

I come skirting out

over the hill

and the powerful road,

maybe even eight lanes,

        my life

on display

protected from the crown

of my head way down

to my ears, thankfully,

 

I keep rolling,

caught, not contained 

by headlight beams

coded white

not even a little

lit from the stoplight

because the stoplight

is no longer

yellow, but not yet

red—it's not anywhere now 

except in transit.

 

And when the city shouts

the city certainly shouts

and everyone exhales

even me,

         gone,

whistling.

 

 

 

 

Oh! Can I listen a little longer?

 

Oh! Can I listen a little longer?

I might hear the whirl— 

but first, the clamor

of a controlled

fall outside my window;

the moving peoples

are buttoned

up and all zipped,

their clothing squeaks

so piercingly

         they shout over it.

Oh, I can hear them very well.

 

But if I may listen a little longer

I will hear the ground clapping

under their

feet as they go, celebrating.

 

And when I do listen a little longer

I can hear the sparrow

and their festivities sparkle

the empty sidewalk.

 

Then of course, the cars

terrify them 

by imitating the rush

of water poorly

      by only rushing,

they take up way too

much time for me to hear.

 

But if those engines

disappear with their tucked 

away fires and clouds of sound

if they will just give me

 

              enough to spare,

I will start to hear

the camouflaged 

sycamore, her branches

wind in the wind like stags 

nodding, tapping antlers.

 

Still, I can’t hear the winter

earth yawning, and turning over.

 

So, I'll just

listen a little

longer. 

Of course I’ll hear the hum

of my breath

and then

my heart

halting and fanning

like a gloved fist

trafficking my blood

up down and every

which way.

 

And then, glaringly,

the resound of

years past

and future

ringing their bells.

 

But just beyond that,

if I can finally listen,

for the love of God,

I’ll hear the whirl

of what is beneath all this;

what is beneath all of this.

 

 

 

 

What calls me to this hour

 

What calls me to this hour

the very last 

hour of the night?

 

Electric as the spring soil

My body is humming, 

eyelids, fluttering

fireflies into the black meadows. 

 

I open my eyes. 

Have I been called?

Every memory emerges as animal

the forest before dawn 

has so much to say. 

 

So the day nears. 

My dog is still as the laundry she lays against like a companion.

My fiancé has to wake up soon, so she needs to be asleep.

But I must be called, there's no other voice.

 

At this hour

the thicket would fog over and crackle.

But I just hear the taxis push along the frozen streets

perhaps looking for passengers to wake

or maybe delivering them home 

so they can finally sleep. 

 

Meanwhile, I have been called to create the forest.

But is it a recreation of one I've seen? 

Or the dew-lipped trail 

we will one day enter, 

in need of a guide.

 

 

 

Our ancestors (The Wedding Poem)

 

Our ancestors

assure us with their dancing

and the sizes of each circle

that their spinning makes.

After one larger and older

comes another one saying, yes.

Some hold on tightly

at the head of a mallet,

others remain apart

to make the giant drum.

If you look from above

you will see their rings

turning around us,

if you look from below

they will be holding you.

 

 

 

The Turquoise End

 

Let's live someplace that lemons grow

Where we can hammer bronze into lace

And our stories are kept in broken glazed pots

Splayed in the yard

I'll follow you into the drawn curtain      of the desert shade

Down the silver sweat will ride

dust off our bodies.

We will watch the batting sun

slowly twirling

and needling the junipers

Until they burn open

and crack into spindles

See—the purple heather blinks the

land

yellow

but the dusky green

sage switches it 

red

And, Look! The cloudless sky

enormous as a meditation

it presses upon every crumbling sand grain

dying it orange.

Surround me, my love

with cactus flowers

soft as infant

lips opening

to the      unimaginable

compelled by the oven

winds that bring birth up alongside death.

 

Let me lay old there with you.

Among mountains stacked in folds.

The laundry of God

Will one day be unfolded

on the plain.