Bread and tea

The girl across the room
absentmindedly
put her arm between her legs,
held her thigh, leaned forward,
and laughed.

I took a bite of bread,
finished my tea,
and left.

I named and drew each week

I named and drew each week of my waking
     like a new species of orchid.
I held that Audubon open to the foreword
     and read my parents' old prayers.
I found the volumes too heavy to carry,
     so I tore out the Second Week of August.    
And I kept my sins on paper napkins
     at bedside for reference.

In the Fourth Week of December, 
     a bright carriage crossed downtown,
holding two beneath a warmth of white glow.
     And the horse leaned forward up the hill.
Inside, I let a beer chill my palms
     and had Christmas with the twelve
coarse patrons of pool and laughter.
     The exit was my rebirth.

In midnight Mass the night before,
     we groaned like the hull of a Roman galley.
We pulled forward in a heave,
     and fought in darkness for the course.
I let the First, Second, and Third Weeks
     of July fade into our movements.
But the cathedral's arcing routine
     was no solace.   

This year, I released all February
     and September for a new joy and weight.
I let the pew, the bar, and my home persist—
     I kept my fists calm.
Out of my sudden, broken calendar,
     I unearthed a week of faith.
Out of my empty-handed work,
     I wrestled in the wake.

The wealth of contentment

Sunday Advent service on this final day of rest,
like a quarter inch of sunlight into the subway.
     I had a heart like a red brick storefront
     but I made the prices too low and never made a profit.
And the word of God like cracked
recordings for connecting lines.
     I had a heart like a white mansion,
     but I could only rent it a day and had to give it back.
And the word of God like fresh graffiti,
then the vapor of bright surface.
     I had a heart like a downtown loft,
     but the doorman turned me out to the storefronts.

Lighthearted #3

Cataloged in your history between your first move 

and your last taste of espresso, my hardback volume

loses pages each month, and I thank the years for passing. 

In the expanse of ruined neighborhoods, we had a laugh

at the peace we found a couple thousand miles 

from our conflicts—the admitted relief of escape.

I thought the cosmos was born between a dashboard
and the rear windshield's heated lines,
but your condensation drawings dried in the summer.

I grew up the way you'd expect: with the stories 
of strangers, with the sharp climate of new cities.
I heard a soldier tell of leaving his wife and family. 

I heard myself reconstruct the past as it flickered 
through the subway window.  So I left it underground
and tasted the universe like I hadn't before.

The truth of leaving

The truth of leaving
is the end of your small pain,
then the worst hunger.

Lighthearted #2

You woke when my car coughed, and
you tripped up the steps while I drove.
You said it's easier to have no hope
than to have two and choose.
You said it comes down to how
much gasoline I can afford.

I set you a place for dinner, and
I set a record for getting home.
I said the winter only comes rarely
and now it's ours to own.
I said there's room by the hearth,
where I burn my books for heat.

You said the best part of saving
is spending it all in the end.
You said the best part of staying up
is the orange morning light.
You broke an egg, broke the quiet
and said no more highway.

Lighthearted #1

After 25 ounces of 2009 wine,
you told me it's not healthy to drink
by yourself, so I opened a new one
to drink for us both.

When my eyes shut, you said,
"Don't bother coming home."
Half asleep, I said, "This is my house,
and we don't live together."

You said, "In the morning I'll be gone."
In the dark I laughed and said
"I know, but when you get off work
come see me again."

You slept, I hiccuped, and the rain
filled my car. I bit my tongue
to keep from singing
then I slept too.

When I awoke

When I awoke,
   a gold hair wrapped around my ear,
      across my neck, and into my mouth.
I had half a mind
   to wind it around a house key and say
      "Here's the rest of you, come back and see me."
Instead, I shook peace
   over breakfast with a spoonful of cinnamon
      and lay down in the grass to doze again.
So I dreamt
   of the Argonaut and a fleece, I set
      full sails and flung my sheets starboard.

When I awoke,
   the story was unwrapped over me,
      and I laughed with my new purpose.
I found you
   on a porch swing and we were lifted
      into the open sea all morning.
I said, "I have no idea
   where my retold odyssey will lead,
      but I love this Ithaca."
You leaned back
   to rest your head, "Ithaca
      also must travel."

After ninety-three years

After ninety-three years of her life
   and twenty-one of mine,
after she learned the date and told stories
   of her children as children,
Grandmother said, "You're a good man–
   you have the integrity of your father."
I bent down and said I hoped so,
   someday at least.

I was afraid to have half a purpose

I was afraid to have half a purpose
     like the bedsheets of a priest
but you just asked if I'd be back
     by dinnertime at least.

I said I'm sorry I lost my way
     and that my voice is going hoarse
but you gave me a smile
     and pointed me back north.

I said I can drive you out of town
     and bake your favorite bread
you laughed and said you didn't care
     as long as we got fed.

I was quiet Monday morning
     while I learned about myself,
but without plan you took my hand
     and put the book back on the shelf.

It's easier to return

It's easier to return. Going away
   I count the telephone poles and dirt turnoffs,
      to find a resting place.
Away, in the cold air and iron chair
   a lion-faith smoker keeps his mouth open
      and his paper hot.
Further, an empty shed, red water,
   and my yellow headlights sign to me
      the night's come.
Further still, an opening between silver maples
   holds our dim voices and the vocals
      of the city.
Again beyond, new forms and a doorman,
   rich for the rest of his shift
      and hopeful yet.
But home has fishing rod arms
   that stretch taut, hook me sharp
      and spin me in.
Since I left, you dressed our house
   in mourning clothes as if it
      had given me up.

Hey old body

Hey old body, here's your chance
to run downhill, headlong with a girl
and feel your knees buckle in.