where girls in bandanas and tanktops

talk to you as if you were one of them

a groupie, a belle du jour.

Marinate fruit by first excavating

the core. With berries, consume

the juice first, then the kernel.

Seconds matter like days

full and slow, our rhythms

preserved in mason jars.

Names flower after blackberries.

Soften the sun

close the shears

dust tumbles out.

A circus performance

of molecules

twisting and releasing

as rays open

the space in fuzzy

lines, forgiving

stains and tears

in the fabric

damp with dew.

blessed, would the invitation be embossed in jewel

colors, the lettering slick to touch, tasting of cinnamon

coffee, sealed with the image of a hawk, ruby red?

.                                        .                                        .

We would wear school-girl uniforms, green and blue

pleated skirts, wool even in the flush of summer

in Southeast Europe almost to Africa. Pressed

together in the streets, sweat pouring from our eyes

.                                        .                                        .

as we follow with telescopic lens the golden statue,

halo of stars, blue train whipping as she ascends

just above our heads, eyes skyward

though we imagine her glancing down. 

.                                        .                                        .

Once more each August, in Madagascar, Croatia

East Timor, Cyprus, Poland, New Brunswick, Haiti

(in New York, parking is free — the streets in reclamation)

we are suspended in this hallowed time, even the uninitiated.

around a cup of jasmine green tea

.                         .                       .        

the table for two is free though too near

the door we fear, leaving on woolen hats

.                          .                         .

waiting for the tea to steep before pouring

as the sextet just in pulls back heavy

.                          .                         .

curtains to see if the laquered tables

slide together so three can sit in a row.

.                         .                              .

Everyone chooses noodles it seems for the soup

for the steam and the salt, for the bowl.

.                         .                         .

We try not to hear but the tables are near

voices carry, we eavesdrop reticently.

.                         .                         .

Without much to say, we bow our heads

eat clumsily with chopsticks, savoring while slurping.

.                         .                         .

Hungry from the cold, heating up now as others talk

of chopping wood and children leaving, flying home to Idaho.

crystals merge into a plane of white

sharper than the sky, particles colder

than air.  Here we are in this frozen

land, uncharacteristic, under

cover, the land and us. 

Remember the bay tree, limbs big

as pipes to a small child

looking for inscape.  To escape

observation by others in a land of

ochre and moss, rough and spongy

against a bony spine.

*               *               *

To go out in the ice-sketched snow

make indentations of form against

form, a footprint to be filled or erased

a mark or measure of whom or what

we used to be, a substance

or other, impressions recovered.

milky blue unlit window display.

When I return to the corner

for a second look I’m certain this Medusa

of glass will be gone or transformed.

Such a mirror I held up, such measured

resistance, such semblance.

How could you have known all along

while I skirted the boundaries, not

realizing the water right here was

glacier fed, mercury free, warm

enough to run fingers through

stretching the surface.

convinced it would help with moving on

as if move necessitates onward

especially if the feared directions

are backwards or sideways.

What about not moving at all

I said amidst strained stares

what about a sitting class

or a class in staring out the window?

Nobody laughed or even glanced–

as if I weren’t in the room, sitting

near the cat on our own formerly

stylish green suede sofa, faded from sun

and use. What is the purpose of thorny,

I asked, to appear to have thorns

to pretend thorniness, with what purpose

if there are not thorns? What purpose indeed?

These thorns I have never possessed.

Campos de Luz Crianza 2006, Garnacha, product of Spain

River, close to Manhattan

closer to Brooklyn — former Coast

Guard station, landfill, photographer’s

disneyland — sold by the U.S. government

to the city of New York for $1.

Strands of Chestnut trees thrive

alongside Oaks, ancient East Coast

monikers. For decades, no one has

seen the island; it wasn’t lost

just bypassed, not in use.

Les Hikikomori

I’ve been reading about Vermeer

especially the painting of a girl

sleeping. What are we to make

of the man looking over her

shoulder, the one we do not

see (he’s been painted over)?

It occurs to me he could

be Vermeer, a little too

close to this one, had to

shut himself in.

seat, mighty Poseidon swims

from sandbar to sandbar

hangs from knots of coral

reef, dives with the Minke whale

practices echolocation with eels.

We no longer swim underwater–

even in pools–for the sake of ears

the useless childhood

shaking and stomping of feet.

We sit instead on the concrete

lip, tracing currents with our toes

imagining the perfect dive

water parting before us

no one watching, no applause

just the sun glinting, warming the tiles.