write a poem a day during May 2009

It never used to be that I’d
Fall ill in a swing, but over
Time things got worse and worse and now
Just looking makes me faintly green.
I’ve spent hours in a tyre with a
Book and ukulele, singing
Beneath the poplar until dusk.
I could have slept there under the
Rustling of leaves. Friday you said
Meet me somewhere, so I built us
A grand swing under the Pont-Neuf,
One that sweeps so low our soles graze
The Seine before rising back up
High but never to the top and
Over. I have no clue if this
Makes me devoted or stupid.

The funniest idea I
Got happened one July night, the
Kind that has the waft of darkness
That though clear, can swallow the stars
Whole so we have to light candles.
I crept up to the attic (one
can only creep up to attics)
And uncovered stuff with only
My cellphone lighting the way. There
Were boxes to stumble through, and
I could play at sleepwalking, arms
Outstretched. I heard nothing, though I
Was surprised there wasn’t even
The rustle of menace ghosts or
Mice. (Such it is with playacting.)
I found the usual: a dress,
Old ivory, lace, dried flower
husks and ribbons. I get it, I
Thought, I’m supposed to dress up as
A spooky bride: when I grin I
Shall bare black teeth, there will be lines
Of blood-red at the corners of
My mouth, the mirror propped against
The knee-wall will first reflect a
Full moon then crack with dramatic
Flourish. All this because I can’t
Sleepwalk, I think. My sleep is thick,
Lush and stationary, involves
Nothing. I pull cobweb laces
Out of my sneakers and pretend
Not to notice how much of a
Charge I get out of thumbing my
Nose at this history as though
It’s civil disobedience.

Here are all the excuses in
The world, in case you have time to
Thumb through them some day over a
Cold one. The first, a classic, a
Sturdy indefensible: ‘I
Didn’t know it was homework, I
Was away’ followed by the rest,
Pages of them, to recruit when
Spirit flags or at leisure. I
Imagine you lining them end
To end, a sad daisy-chain
Of justifications reaching
The moon, a forever task to
Eat up your lifetime so you could
Say there was no time left for stars,
Space, galaxies. I remember
You on a precipice with a
Rare ephemeris some planets
Ago, taking notes as fast as
You could, expanding them, planning
A remarkable mind-piece that
Could both launch rockets and stop-start
Hearts. Ingenious, I thought, impressed,
Wanting to grasp that journal, squeeze
Out its essence. How you may choose
To use it to extinguish each
Planet, one after another,
Until there is nothing but cold
Smudges left in that universe,
Is beyond my comprehension.

I asked him about indifference,
Just for the fun of it. He was
Indifferent, and I got a fit
Of the giggles. Today I have
Another idea. I want
To spend the day in the Beaches
Recreating a recurring
Dream, the same one, the same dream each
Night, every night. I start walking
East with you along Balmy Beach
Past Ashbridges. I’m in the same
Dress, the same ballet flats. Same heat,
Dark, summer, still, impending. We
Pass the boardwalk onto sand that
Leads to the rocky breakwater.
In time we do not notice faint
Zippers of lightning, low rumbles
Until there are spatters and then
Deluge. I don’t think I shall tire
Of this. My friends like this dream too
As though they know it, as though it
Is triumph. I think if it should
Evaporate one day, we all
Will suffer. In the absence of
Love, we settle for attention.

Your absence seems finite as though
You must turn up somewhere sooner
Or later, like a missing glove
Or a parachute blown awry.
In this absence I see fragments
Of you, motes and filaments, in
Places I look. It’s always you
Or your absence I see, colour
Or colourlessness, everything
Or nothing. Last weekend I watched
Boys launch model rockets in a
Field, saw a metaphor in the
Thin arc of the little paper
Cone that seemed to fizz its way to
The heavens in a split second.
I turned to you as though you were
Present: We could do that. You were
Not there so I could not tell you
More: This was my school. Here is the
Spot where I stretched out in June sun
Before class, a hat over my
Face. Here is the track. I was a
Sprinter. Here is faint graffiti,
There my initials, traceable.
Here are absences to match yours.
When the boys go I may find you.

The last time I travelled here, day
Darkened by six and there were bare
Trees black against the sky. I peered
In the window of one of the
Presidents’ houses, small, yellow
And shuttered, looking for signs of
Ghosts but saw only one wavy
Glassed window-pane rattle and steam
When I blew on it. Nothing was
Open so I stood stamping on
The frozen ground for a minute
Before I went to look for you
In other places. I tried the
Inglenook by the campus where
Hammered copper glints, the foundry
With its huge quartersawn doors, the
Quiet and brooding chapel. There’s
An inn across the street. Meet me
Here, I thought, We’ll be breathless on
All that fumed oak, not knowing where
To look, into eyes or green glazed
Tiles. I saw no ghosts today in
The closed museum garden I
Broke into. The lure of scent and
Petals assured me you’d be there
So I pushed aside the gate and
Concern, and sat still beneath a
Pergola blued with clematis
Blooms. I waited until you filled
Out memory and let the sun
Set around me, content, singing.

If I might invent another
Universe, it would be a grand
Mesa, with the kind of spellbound
Desolation at sunset that
Makes even the toughest cowboys
Trickle with tears. We’d pitch ball all
Day and come night circle about
A fire-glow, spooning chili from
The iron, sand and heat. There’d be
A mournful harmonica as
First stars rose, illumination
Of cowhide dappled black and white
Rising up on solemn terrain
Amid tumbleweeds, brush, holes dug
In rock, and a linked garland of
Georgia’s cow bones. O gentle plain.
I shall know all directions come
From beauty of desolation.

happy birthday dear kindred

My friend told me I had a heart
So special it made music that
Followed me wherever I went.
One day during a rainstorm you
Made a noise, a thunderclap so
Bold and real it sent that heart to
Skitter across the floor like a
Landed trout, its unused trust and
Affections spilling out in a
Splat and throe that should make you wince.
After that, you were nowhere. I
Groped on hands and knees along the
Baseboards but found only a brief
Pang (which looked like love so I kept
it) and some accumulated
Motes. There was nothing else to do,
So I staunched what I could and swept.
Distraction followed, hanging chimes
In the hollow, embroidering
Fine seams where the raw edges chafed.
I heard a low jangle, distant
And familiar, the last time it
Rained and was reminded of you,
Your getaway, clean and blameless.
If one cannot have truth, I have
Always said, have beauty. You shall
Have music wherever you go.

My friend – last night late a kindred
Nearly drove sixteen hours straight
In ceaseless rain to see someone
So much like you. I found out by
Accident: five, six messages,
Each one more distraught than the last:
Please, I need to talk to you, please.
Of course I called at once, my fork
Clattering, missing him by a
Split second. I hate irony
Like that. I want warp zones, wrinkles
In time, O’Henry twists. Should we
Speak, days would speed, their ease spinning
New orbits and trajectories,
And I could jump in that car too,
Owning time and space by right of
Way. He went ninety miles to the
Border, stopped and turned back once he
Thought better of it. He called me
From Niagara Falls. It’s cold in
Outer space this time of year, I
Told him, reminded of planets
You and I poked around once, in
Zero gravity, till our hearts
Stuttered and paused. You made a joke
And it hung motionless in the
Sky. I tried to make it into
Quicksilver for you and I laughed
Perhaps too swiftly, too loudly.
My friend – I no longer hear
The car’s faint idling in my ear.

I’m confused by telepathy.
Yours should be a perfect arrow
True and swift and stinging with love,
The sweetest lingering pain of
Martyrs. I’d be Saint Sebastian,
Twice immolated, numbed in a
Kind of misplaced epidural.
But early one evening this spring
I scanned a pale sunset for your
Dark thoughts and was wary. You’ve the
Knack of mimicking natural
Disaster: cyclone, flood, drought, fire.
I was bracing for something and
Turned gaze to the distance of your
General direction, sensing
What was next. I should have reached for
Opioids right there; whatever
You send always means a shite-load
Of medication. Waves of what
I guessed to be torment wafted
Over highways and bridges, crashed
Through international borders,
Heaved aside all else in their path.
The thing of it is, I’m never
Prepared. There’s no chance to make a
Pre-emptive strike. If I’d sensed the
Rumbling beneath me, I’d have had
Time to leap as the first quake hit,
The way you jump up in the air
To save yourself if you’re in an
Elevator that’s crashing to
The basement. This is futile, but
I’m going to tell you anyway:
This is not about loss. It is
Destruction. Don’t get them confused.