Was it your darkest
night or one of those mornings,
your window glowing,

birds chirping, you chose
death over the horror and
stopped eating? I just

read the good philo-
sopher, how your choice and my
horror at it af-

firm the ‘simple, el-
emental good’ of being.
You knew the horror.

The scrambled eggs I
made for you grew cold on the
tray. You closed your eyes.


I face the mirror,
turn sideways, and it’s true: these
new jeans are too big,

my shriveled buttocks
leave much to be desired, e-
ven to you, dearest

Narcissist! Oh well.
Let’s return to the rest, to
all the other old

farts, pensioners, and
embrace, with our aches and pains,
our wrinkled faces.


It’s suddenly Spring.
In the shadow of houses
daffodils strain un-

der the weight of dew.
I couldn’t sleep anyway,
waiting for sunup.

If the old poets
knew anything, it was this
immanence of joy,

this lack of propor-
tion between frail finite things
and God’s hyperbole.


The words ‘empty arms’
suggest how I see myself
from time to time out

of the corner of
my mind. I may be washing
the dishes, putting

a book down, my arms
ache to hold you. I complete
the task seamlessly

on the one hand. On
the other I stumble in-
to grief’s dark abyss.

I’m sorry, you say,
things were simpler back when we
took love for granted.


Trash. For all we know,
says the philosopher, God
is thrown together

with the trash. Coffee
grinds and orange peels, for all
we know, mix with God.

For all I know, as
I wash out the bins, I wash
out God with the rest.

I know a symbol
when I see one. God’s glister
shines at the bottom.


Frustrated poet-
critic that I am, I sit
surrounded by books

and fragments of my
breakfast and stare into the
light. I confess my

nothingness before
the greater nothingness, ex-
cess of primal be-

ing named ‘light’ by o-
thers who have made the journey
in the between, mys-

tics in the old sense,
whose writings companion me
in my solitude.