of local spaces (land values
up, say the white man).

of will-to-power. The fire
next time as well as

this time in the Gol-
den State. People melted to
their cars. Can we start

over? No. Legal
pads shall remain blank (yellow)
but for mad doodles.


I do wonder at
the wildness of this old heart.
From the distance white-

caps reach the rocks and
reeds at my feet. Nietzsche, dear
dizzy new-old friend,

I watch you die in
the shallows, over and over
again. I’m not un-

moved. What is that on
the horizon? More of the
same? No. Beyond that.


So what’s the delay,
sweet Death? You have debts to pay,
and not just to me.

All those credit cards.
You banked on the future, fool!
Yes: the French place near

the weir in Bath, the
trattoria in old Rome.
Love in each slow mouth-

ful. There’s nothing empty
about the nothing I am
now, Death, so fuck off.


At the bus stop youth
gather this snowmelt morning:
beanies, skinny jeans,

ripped trucker jackets.
Unisex. Constant motion.
They almost miss the

bus as it pulls out.
Next stop Providence. I will
never understand

death, radiant youth,
or what held them in this mo-
ment of happiness.


I have heavy shoes
for my walks in the dark. Thick
sole, deep footbed. Ugg,

Dansko. I go to
work in snow, rain, ice, afraid
I’ll slip, fall, break bones

on eminences
jutting from my starless or
worse moonbright passage.

I return, knock the muck off,
and pick up my book.


A plume of breath goes
before you on your morning
run. You wipe away

tears. The world so cold!
What’s missing now that you’ve climbed
the hill of success

is trust between us.
O how black the black lab now
running in my place.


On the blue gas ring
my worn aluminum Mo-
ka gurgles. A cold

New England Thanksgiv-
ing morning. An orange madman
runs the White House, fire

wastes California.
God stays away. How forgive
myself being thrown

beyond all this not
by God but by my own de-
sire’s hyperbole?

Later tonight I
will share a bottle of gra-
pa with grateful friends.