Waiting by the win-
dow for the rain from down South,
a hurricane named

Florence. Killer rains.
It’s human to name things, hu-
man to wait for things

to say their names. Plu-
ral. The day darkens, signs of
excess on the way.


Were it not for the
color in your cheeks, a sign
of presence and hope,

O passerby, I’d
just be one more old man sit-
ting here staring off.

Forgive my gaze. I
mean nothing. As I watch you
pass, the crowded street

becomes the subject
of a painter faithful to
circulation’s rose.


Sipping scotch, waiting
for a poem, I read in
Yves Bonnefoy. Color,

where nothing ends; now,
haunted by what’s most remote.
Color is time’s now.

As I wait, the trees
in this New England village
start to change color.


This saturated
light: ocean of pure being
nearby. Well, not quite.

Locals say ‘muggy.’
Tank tops and shorts de rigeur.
Aftermath’s hot glow.

Something more intense
than Eros, so generous
this loving nothing.


I shrug on an old
coat, a long colorful one.
As I graze the seams

and selvage, the sign
of the maker reminds me.
There is no nunc stans.

Eternity flows
from the abyss of iden-
tity. Wear it well.

Perhaps the beauty
of the coat, so like that of
the world, calls you out.


Dark more than absence
of day. The room at the top
of stairs never mine,

worn bare by my tread.
Books, clothes, art from the old life.
Aching bones, dim eyes.

The relief of the
ancient bath, floating, seeping,
is so full of soul.