For What It’s Worth

I’d repeat my sons exactly 

as they are, even the one

with the now blue hair still asleep 

at the foot of my bed. I’d repeat

the night I met my wife and even

the middle years of purgatorial sorrow.

Three times, at least, I’d repeat last 

night’s sunset, of which I could see

a framed square of downy furrows 

deepening from rose to bruise

while I sat in the filling tub, book 

in hand, already part way out

of this world. Though it would not 

bring me any joy at all, I would

repeat three times the day I did not 

pull the trigger, or the day I almost

pushed the sharpest knife 

we owned between my ribs.

Three times, at least, I would 

enter the water, walking toward

the sun, the water needle cold, 

all of it, in its own way, surging

toward an epic repetition— 

I may be on the other side

of some things, but I have not 

yet seen the longest night.

How to Love the Unfinished Dream 

There it is again — that

little pop of possibility 

sparking in my brain.

It’s an effervescent joy

I can map out fully

in my mind from blue-

prints to the manual. 

I have all the tools

even & the know how. 

O, what a bit of bare sky

& sun will do

to a winter mood.

It is the purest heaven — 

& the only kind

I believe in: brief

& ending the very moment

awareness mounts 

the stone staircase

of the mind. It was 

good though, wasn’t it?

That little bite of bread 

after so long without —

Four Years to the Day

but I am still crushed

by that old devotion to drink

to the dream of bitter floral notes 

of hops in iced cups on repeat

the swoon of a binge 

my daily homage

to the excess of nature 

the overkill of spring

my immaculate tongue always 

ready to indulge

the deluge of a want 

I mislabeled need

even though years pass 

in which I bow & bow

to nothing nothing 

bows back

Cocoon

After years of binge my hunger 

was suddenly gone I became still

for three whole minutes during which 

a curt north wind dusted my sills

with a memory of ice everything changed then 

I put aside my sickle and walked from the field

though the day was young and found

a shade in which to begin I did not think

about the task beyond that it felt when noticed 

like nothing more than breathing

I began with nothing to show

and soon a veil of fibers around my feet

and soon a quilt that felt like knowing 

how to dance and dancing well

and so I spun for what else

was there to do I no longer went

out I didn’t know how to be

a friend or father I didn’t know

what a lover was I stopped 

pretending the world was to blame

I was inside with no story 

to save me from myself

Apologia

Whoever said stone is unfeeling

does not know the measure of all feeling.

Channeling stone can save those that 

would float away into realms of grief.

Holding against the storm,

I sit with my wife as she sobs.

I am, with my life,

carving my apology from this stone.

The Return

Here I am again, 

staring out the window,

watching nothing

in particular happen

to the trees. I hear 

a raven make

from nothing

a sound like a drop

of water—that 

sound falling

into the cavern 

of my brain.

How does one aim 

toward nothing

without tripping 

into nihilism?

I banished the drink 

in order to live.

I returned 

to myself

by making room 

for nothing.