One thousand ghosts
assault me in the parking lot,
begging to be said.
-
Seven things I know about happiness
First, that it is like a wave
that rolls across you standing there
and lifts you just a bit,
so that your toes barely touch.
Second, that it rocks outward
and tugs you softly that way, too.Third, it is like a wave
that cartwheels right over you
and shoves and topples you,
drowning you in its tough muscle,
and you have to sputter for breath.
Fourth, that it can sweep out with such force
that it yanks your legs from under you
and lands you back on sharp pebbles,
and sand sticks to you.Fifth, it is like a wave
that lifts your whole body so high
that you are swept all the way to kingdom come,
and are lucky to ever get back,
if you ever want to.
Sixth, that it sometimes never comes at all
and you are left standing on the beach
wondering how to get wet.Seventh, that it is like a wave
that changes and treats you different,
and it is often hard,
with remorse, or cunning, or grief,
or beauty, or wonder, or abandon,
and breaks wildest
when your heart is open and clean,
and you cannot say no. -
Prom night
Prologue
Corsage scratches wrist;
shoes pinch little toes;
fingers clenched; dizzying
whirlwind — smooth girls with
pinned flowers, easy laughs.I
We pull the late
sunlight from the sky as you
stroll into the green,
your ancient gang of gods and
muses effervescing.II
We abandon you
to the circling tides.
The phone does not ring.
The darkening night swallows the moon,
taking as it alone desires.III
Your Sunday afternoon sleep
drapes the tv room, legs flop
over the coffee table,
habitual drone of soccer —
the night hidden, secretted away. -
A notion
I tilt recklessly
through the day, buffered by your
tender forgivings.
A vague notion sifts through:
would this be called providence? -
Rainy drive
Rain smatters the windshield,
streams from my car
over the interstate,
trails in great, soaking clouds
behind semis and tractors,
and coats the shoulders,
fields, ponds, and farmhouses
with a settling sheet.
Insects, birds, farmers, field hands
retreat into solitude;
activity is submerged;
everything on the earth
draws inward,
toward the silent mirror
for a brief eternity. -
The gift
Somewhere in the silky trill of the early birds
my memory finds you,
and in its deep wanderings
on this foggy morning
whatever was true and not true
surfaces in small pieces,
more tattered for having been retrieved.You gave me a gift once.
I wonder where in this collection
it can be found —
is it one of these frayed remnants,
or many of them,
or in between them?
With substance enough
to hold all the rest in story,
or not — to let them slip through
never to be known again?Come back again and tell me,
point it out, sing it to me,
whisper it at bedtime,
shout it down the street
as I am leaving.
Make sure I don’t forget.
Don’t be afraid of boring me,
I will listen to every syllable this time.