Of Tyrants and Poets

As the tyrant holds
on to power, the poets
feel the urge to act.

The pressure on them
comes from people: the people
really want poems.

What’s a poem to
do? Sit back and wait until
a true poet knocks.


As nights grow shorter
the moon grows brighter over
the tall trees and un-

lit windows of un-
occupied apartments that
people the skyline.

A car alarm may
go off but the moon rises
without pause until

for a moment all
is spectacle. Those dark win-
dows blink away tears.

A Sleeping Song

Bag of memory
and desire, I lay you down
at my feet and sleep.

Let the dreams disturb
my sleep. I reach down and touch
you: you haven’t moved.

There is a moment
before dawn when I have no
desire or memory;

I’m released beyond
myself, a window open
to a nameless love.

Such Mercies

Is “almost” ever
enough? Quasimodo Sun-
day after Easter.

We are all foundlings
in this world. A sharp wet wind
in my face feels good.

The fresh green branches
thrash and flutter in the sky,
which makes me happy.

Such mercies! Chuang
Tzu taught the love of self, cold
when cold, warm when warm.


Yet another wet
day. The tyrant’s terror ex-
tended another

wet day. Innocents
plucked from their communities.
It just goes on and

on. Terror is con-
structed daily of bodies.
The more released in-

termedium im-
itated here resists terror:
the ancient terroir

of soil, clouds, rain, sun,
patience, work, hopefulness,
trust in good verses.

On Poets

There are agenda
poets — something must be done,
and now — and they’re good

as the cause is good.
For poets without a cause,
good and evil squint,

pressing out the tears.
World is already the case.
Lacrimae rerum.


Before the first clouds
roll in, the streets around here
shine with a misty

crust — broken glass but
there’s been no accident. “Look,
don’t think.” We have no

word for this. It’s Spring
and early and about to
rain. This happens here.