People love autumn,
or so they say. Colors speak
a lover’s lingo.

That tree turning red
recalls your best sex ever.
The jogger passing

through the park—-so lean,
so clean, so fit, so alone—-
was gone by daybreak.

No laughing matter,
then, Autumn has other plans.
It’s ridiculous.

We kick the fallen
leaves. They return to the ground.
That is the most fun.


It’s not that I don’t
care about appearances.
Buttons, loosed in sum-

mer, pull off in win-
ter. Cuffs, ankle and wrist, lose
definition. I

watch as my self blurs,
assume the dimensions of
the nothing I was

and will be. Mirrors
remind me there’s a god be-
yond the one I’ve known.


Can it be a po-
em if it just remembers
other bits of verse

so they shine like tes-
serae on the floor of a
disused cathedral?

One by one they sur-
vive polished by the feet of
pilgrims and tourists,

a few worshippers;
once a week washed by an old
blind woman in black.


When all is said and
done, if there be any praise,
let it be mindful.

No god intervened
to ruin your sex life, or
the final sip of

wine before you lost
all taste for wine. No god kept
good happenings from

happening. It seems
the gods’ sole purpose is to
let patience fulfill

your wildest dreams. Praise
the gods of your creation
as you slip away.


A mackerel sky,
the play of wind and waves white
in the bay, the bells

of Trinity peal-
ing the hour: I find a bench.
Sabbath is a gift

I can’t refuse. Gulls
wheel and squeal overhead, my
idiot laughter.


the tears of the child, of the
lover, of the old

man, of all things—-lac-
remae rerum, as these tears
swell from unknown depths.

They leave you heaving
at the edge of nothingness.
In empty silence

early birds wake and
their thin songs are answers to
the habit of prayer.