1. The Night-Blooming Hour

there are flowers which shun the daylight sight.
They wait instead
to make the world unstrain its voice.

At midnight,
when even the traffic leaves the spleen behind,
the smell of them starts its tender rebellion-
invisible, unstoppable.

You would miss it
in case you thought that beauty had to be viewed.
to be believed.

Tonight I walked home slowly
just to witness it --
white petals opening
like careful secrets.

No applause greeted them.
No crowd gathered.

Still, they bloomed
with the confidence
of things that understand
it is not dependent upon their aim
on witnesses.

I wondered then
that there are how many life-histories like this!
quietly,
and when all are asleep.

Perhaps we are more faithful
to ourselves in the dark,
less afraid of becoming
who we were meant to be.

And the perfumed night was filled with,
and for a moment
the whole breathing earth
felt tender.


2. City of Sleepless Windows

From my balcony
the city glittered --
not with celebration,
but with persistence.

So many lit windows
at a time when should have been yielded.

Behind one,
some one wrapped up tomorrow troubles
into neat stacks.

Behind another,
a child, a child barred with dreams.

Somewhere,
two people were ending a love
they had rehearsed saving.

Archaivists are insomniacs
We catalogue regrets,
play back and complete dialogues,
polish old grief
until it shines again.

Yet there is companionship
in this shared wakefulness --
a silent agreement
among strangers
that rest will come later.

Near dawn,
one by one,
the windows dimmed.

Not defeat --
just the body remembering
it belongs to morning.

I stayed a while longer,
watching the darkness thin,
reflecting what a wonderful thing it is.
that all the anxious nights should end in,

the world still chooses
to begin again.

In my imagination
there is no key I know of
under your doormat,
no white sheets we hang together
on the dry line.  
The veil never meets my scalp,
vows fail to form at our lips; 
death need not do us part.

Instead, we are actors
performing what real lovers do:
hands grazing, eyes locked,
sitting shoulder to shoulder 
on the shaky wooden stools 
in a Manhattan sports bar. 
Tuesdays is our ritual: 
we rendez-vous  
on the green benches
in Washington Square Park. 
You, my confidante,
I, your vault.

But when the curtains close
and the lights come back on
we step out of our costumes
and go our separate ways.
All the world’s a stage 
and us, merely are the players.
 
After all, I do not know you—
your coffee order 
your mother’s name
the incident from childhood
that left a scar on your right eye; 
I do not feel you in the ways 
drunk poets write of 
and asylum goers describe.
In between us remains 
the infinite chasm 
(between likeness and love) 
drawn by a single thread line. 
 
But in my imagination,
every so often 
we veer off script 
and blur the lines.
All the world’s a stage
but when I step off
you remain on my mind.
After all, I know you—
the shift of your voice when you anger 
what makes you laugh, 
the ways you lie. 

In my imagination
I feel you in the ways 
electricity runs through 
fluorescents screens, 
and the neon signs 
flashing in a taxi cab, 
as if norepinephrine and ambien
were running through my veins
as if we never left the play
and kept pressing rewind.

But when I awaken 
from my foolish day dream 
I face reality’s sobering cruelness: 
Your blonde from a Good Home, 
awaits you in your living room 
adorned in a cotton summer dress.
She cooks like your mother
and reminds you of the seas. 
She loves you like a lover does 
She knows nothing of me.

As the curtains close once more
and we go about our separate days
I think of you as just a stranger; 
perhaps we were always better off that way.

1. no more apologies


set the table at midnight
 
sorry for burnt dinner

I wasn’t paying attention
was I?

caught between
Suns and 
Moons

sorry, 
              sorry

Twice 
because 
it’s not enough

wrong 
horse

scratching
                  the paint

she sees me so clearly

just a little 
                off center

sometimes 
but always 
true

there is no time
for anything else

                but so much time
to change and 
                change again

or 
                stand still.

I can’t always tell
if we should
stop. 
         or keep going

what I 
never 
always 
do is rest.

but we’re
frozen 

or at least I am.

fawn for love

farm from what’s
given to you

this dirt will thaw

and Mother will
                                 bloom again

trains of thought
                                 leave the station

too early
                  too late

I’ll see you in 
tomorrow 
today’s 
Sun

       
                           I love you,
                                                12:01



2. When The Hopeful Hypocrite Dreams of Today


my head hurts
                             and I’ve wasted
  		                                            another day
Time 
             I can’t crawl back to

my ship sails,
    	                   forward,
                     	                   through
but the anchor 
                              drags,

“do as I say”
                        I say
not as I do.

hopeful 
              hypocrite

promising 
Warmth
to the cold

as if I hadn’t 
                        stretched 
                                             these corners
a blanket
that wouldn’t 
grow to be
enough

“I know it is heavy”
                                        I say 
“I know how dark,
                                     how cold 
                                                       it can get.”

and it can always get
Colder

Fear grips at me
                               just as I witness its latching

get away from them!
			                   I say

But sometimes it’s not enough

this active healing
that takes place
                                  it’s a scary thing, don’t you understand?
Of course, I do.
 
                                  do you think apologies are enough?
Of course, I don’t.

even-toned placations

Little one, 
I wonder what it would be like to
                                                                meet you now
Worried and worried
Wondering if tomorrow would be easier

then easy comes
I promise it does

but first, we must sail
                                           through treacherous waters 
                                                                                                 of the beaten spirit

I will be our captain, 
help me sail for 
                              fortunately, 
         
                                                      my destiny is hope.



3. just wait for dawn


in the middle
                           of the night
I collect

My sticks
My stones

and the bark of the tree
that fell
                  no sound
                  no witness

except the bird that 
                                      fluttered away,

losing her children
in the heavy 
thump 

of her home

I walk
             and walk

with a nest 
in my arms

I gather,
sobbing, 
                  heaving 

the emptiness
inside of me

mourning for more than my pain

finally, 
Warmth
                  beside me

somehow,
in the dead of the night

I had forgotten

the sun would
                              rise again

We wouldn’t be 
                              alone anymore

lay down these burdens

I welcome the 
End 
        and the Beginning

Mother comes back
                                         tittering along
a quiet murmuring
                                    a soulful grievance

there is no consolation
except to ask

if you can let 
                          the light
	                  the warmth
                                                 touch your wings

knowing it never
                                 got to touch
                                                        your heartstrings

can we lay down
in the soil
                    and let
Mother 
take us back?

can we wait
                        for dawn?

can I wait 
                        with you?

I have all of the time 
                                       in the world.