THE ROPE

A man stands 

up inside 

himself. 

Lifts

out of 

Child’s Pose, 

so to speak, 

and finds

he is at the heart 

of a labyrinth.

In his hand 

is a metaphor 

 

shaped like a knot.

Everything 

that comes 

next is 

 

a gesture of reversal,

an unraveling,

an undoing.

Apology.

He is erasure

and instigator,

the clues

and cues

that keep 

sending 

the coil

further and further

behind -

until the day 

 

he is at the mouth

of an entrance

holding,

with both hands,

a rope,

a weave,

 

that will pull 

him into

 

the rest 

of his life.

DEED OF TRUST

Eyes of owls,

trampled lilac,

broken glass,

relics for junk,

anger and shame,

a snake rising, 

smoke and prayer,

berries on the tongue,

a lit wick,

lessons 

as arduous as 

the Torah -

and more.

These,

and the amnesty

we sometimes give 

ourselves,

live in the house

of belonging,

though the deed 

did not come 

with a midrash.

Which means:

we must truly

trust in trust.

WHAT COUNTS?

I may rent a car and not use it

but still feel like Speed Racer.

I may live like a debtor 

but feel more philanthropic than Bill Gates.

Or speak from both sides of my mouth 

but talk only of my own taste buds.

Embody a myriad of contradictions

but own only one mirror.

Conceal a serious overbite but know my teeth 

are bigger and brighter than my dentist’s.

Flaunt a chisel but work it I like tweezers

on the one eyebrow my closest friends share

that underscores their worry.

Puppet about 206 bones 

but have only one rag to wring.

Swoon over my very own Pocahontas 

but have no mussel shell to shave with.

Stack a Kilimanjaro of croutons but can’t find 

the god damn Caesar in the salad.

Witness three comedians flounce their shtick

but possess only the one cackle to unfurl my pleasure from.

Hoist my Yosemite calendar but fail

to lay down all my petty burdens and boredoms.

Strut all my compulsions about town

but treat them, in private, like sad little orphans.  

Tongue my clarinet but haven’t kissed the King.

Pretend to be an abacist but forget to count my blessings.

GRATITUDE’S PRODIGY

          

Plays the Steinway with late winter rain.

Patches a hole with chocolate quinoa brownies.

Enlivens by simply saying Taos.

Uses human tendrils to entwine the night.

Sets fixity on fire with its questions.

Empties the purse of vengeance.

Brings cuttings to strangers in the rain.