Metaxyturn Diaries

Bless this Pelikan
nib. It has taught me not to
press down as I write.

To touch is enough.
Lying is common among
the powerful, we

poets have no power.
Millions die for the lies
told by presidents.

There’s a courage in
the February flurries
and the cutting wind.

I am shaking though
I keep going down Broad Street
having promised to,

to the little green
on the bay, where the school kids
are building snowmen.

That first night we made
love it was snowing, silent
but for your laughter.

Old self, transcendent
companion, gladiator
in time’s arena,

this could be it: let’s
retire from the ring, book a
cruise, get to know each

other. We (plural)
have one origin; we are
not done becoming.

Even short poems,
if music be not lacking,
make it all worth it.

The swing is the thing—-
‘between the words?’ (Mark Fiddes)—-
a sign in excess,

ecstatic. Humans
are given to music. Despair
dissolves in music.

Another matte day.
Almost noon and no sun yet.
Everything wet though.

Light oozes inward-
ly without giving away
any deep secrets.

My overworked eyes
take comfort in the gifts of
chiaroscuro.

Midwinter lifting.
More light in the canopy
of patient branches.

Our marriage shocked us.
(I had to sew a button
on my best white shirt.)

Your untimely death
has prepared a room for you
where silence opens.

There are two sides to
all things: the heart’s wall, pale twigs
of infinity.

Master is hung up
on ‘the’ in the phrase ‘the Way.’
It troubles his sleep

and mine. The duvet
twisted around him, he tries
to forget the Way.

In the morning I
sit in front of my bowl but
he goes back to bed.

I leave some vomit
for him to clean up. We reach
high by bending low.