The poetry slam
on the radio last night
was almost too much.

Yelling on both sides
of the proscenium. Dis-
appearance thereof.

All one howl. Okay,
I could have turned it off, it’s
a free country. Al-

most is close enough
to all. I kept on seeing
the face of some god.


Love is a habit
stronger than grief. If I still
visit—-and I do—-

our old rendezvous
(the plural sounds the sameness),
the front of the house

smiles back at me, ducks
swim in the sun-shot willows,
Rome sweetens at dusk.

True, I sometimes glimpse
you walking away from me, you
being more than you.


I don’t sit here seek-
ing some whole. My espresso
cools, the heat gone, bit-

terness hard to swal-
low. I sit between peril
of my nothingness

and the crux of speech-
lessness. If communication
happens, it’s beyond

me, my finitude
ruptured and opened by the
good of the last drop.


Call it soft apo-
calypse, the uncovering
of ambiguous

divinity in
time. No question of meaning.
My finitude pierced

by the beauty of
the thing. I’m put in my place.
My bare existence.

The way the wind pierced
my best jacket this Spring day
and the racing clouds.