horizon

How capable I am of making a supreme mess of things.
In a heartbeat, I think, I could, by accident, topple walls,
crash floorboards, unstick this thing of us.

And yet, by some miracle or blessing,
each possible disaster crumbles
before I can even set my hands to the fire.

Even as winter blooms
with its intended forecast of mutiny,
I wonder if any tempest
could dare touch this house.

The walls and floorboards haven't moved an inch.
And all I see, spread out
like lush and vigorous certainty,
is something almost resembling
horizon.

lucid

i've left the dishes be for once
and kept the counter full of crumbs.
i can't make order out of much -
tonight i'm nothing but a pair of thumbs.

i wanted poetry, or song,
i wanted words for telling.
but night has left me just as mute -
how can that be compelling?

all i know is, you are sleeping
and i am far too tired.
the blankets call my name like Sirens,
and only moonlight seems inspired.

it must be winter setting in,
some lucid frosted almost-violence.
i'll cut the lights and shut the door
and sing my love in silence.

Why I Keep Getting Up in the Morning

the on button on the espresso machine
a toaster on the verge of ejection
butter
the sound of the pepper shaker
the dog at the door
blank pages
unreturned phone calls
that beautiful, life-affirming need to pee
recycling
baked goods
laundry
Aveda shampoo
a better horoscope
the possibility of frost
grapefruit
mint gum
the restless search for perfect jeans
because i'm not done with the chocolate truffles
the word "effervescent"
orange juice with extra pulp
to learn more HTML
David Sedaris
the places my passport could take me
crosswords
questions
answers
the maybe of it all
and because sleep doesn't do all the work by itself
even when i am still dreaming
and i am still dreaming

sunrise, then descent

at 35,000 feet, you feel like God,
inking in skylight
because it just seems like the right time,
and you needed a change, anyway,
all that dark and viscous monochrome.

but you're not God,
and the thing is,
you're never supposed to be
this far away from anything.

which is why, on the descent,
you start dreaming about bad Dunkin' Donuts coffee,
the car rental that'll take you miles out of the way,
the dip in the barometer, afternoon gridlock -
these are necessary imperfections
which will, eventually, bring you into the arms
of your family, and which will eventually,
bring you into the arms of
everything else in the world.

Things My Grandather Said The Day Before His 85th Birthday

""It's terrific, if I do say so myself."
""You know my idea of a great breakfast? - Steak and champagne."
"We like the Queen Elizabeth - the Queen Mary's much too big."
"They call me the impresario of New Haven."
"By now, I can distinguish between Korean, Chinese, and Japanese."
"I've got a lot of adopted granddaughters. In fact, one of Shira's friends..." (pause) "Some girl."
"They call him Berman the Bear because he can really pound the piano."
"I wanted to take away some money from you guys and make it easier on my executor."
"Would anybody like some of the Plan B cake?"
"I have 75 protegés."

and my personal favorite...

"She comes in with Puerto Ricans at 3 in the morning and they sleep it off downstairs in the basement."

skyline

i'd like to tell my body a thing or two
about what it's like out there,
and to calm the fuck down.

no use rushing the legs through
the snarl of supermarket carts.
no point pushing the arms
through the rigors of the bench press.

my heart's not any more alive
when it's racing.

and because it's so easy to forget
the slow, perilous steps we took
to arrive where this moment finds us,
to know the length of patience
embedded in each footfall,
the stretch of daring necessary in our hearts,
because it feels so ludicrious to celebrate
any of yesterday's timid impulses, the strange wonder
of one hand reaching toward another,

because of this i will rise from all my bench pressing,
the silly tangos in the grocery aisle,
the day's small, palpitating emergencies,
and watch the light dip toward its own disappearance.
And then I will memorize the skyline
with my fingertips.

Here

I love how you never complain about the dishes.
The way you turn clean laundry
into perfect geometry.

I love how good your coffee is.
How we can lay in bed watching bad TV
with our legs in a matrix of such good, easy warmth.

I love the funny way you make eggs,
your allegiance to the dog,
the strength of your back,
the dirt under your nails.

I love your chicken pot pie,
how you pretend to speak French,
the way you dance, spontaneously,
while you're driving.

I love your enormous collection
of Chinese herbs,
your preference for Aveda,
the pale blue towels from Restoration Hardware,
your butter dish, your Calphalon.

I love your eyes in the morning,
the squint of them, the soft, strange tiredness
of you becoming awake, again.

Or this:
The gifts you deliver when I least expect it.
Small, precise brilliances,
some minor but miraculous budding thing
that survived the rain or the heat.
I'd walk by, not knowing
what to do with that armature of branches,
the dense veil of leaves.
But you stay
until your fingers find jewelry.

And at home, after our first kiss,
you do not set your bags down.
You do not move to the mail.
You don't try to restore
any of the mess I made
while you were gone.

You unwrap only your closed fist,
lay it flat against my palm, press together
the tiny inches between us, and say
"Here."

low flame

Reading the website of the bestselling author
whose books I'd read and recommended,
I saw things were getting really good for him.
He was charging for lecture tours now and
one of his books was being made into a movie starring
Gwyneth Paltrow and Annette Bening.

I realized I had two choices:
I could flail at the stack of blank paper
lying flaccid on my desk,
stare like a crazy person at my screen
with my brain on the verge of mutiny,
and write angry, ugly things.

Or I could use the time
to make a really good steak,
with the potatoes I like,
which are best cooked over a low flame,
to avoid unnecessary burning.