Counsellors

Counsellors   

“Try,” said the sun

to the autumn tree,

and draped harvest warmth

on its withering.

     And nothing was changed

     in the tree’s sinking.

“Try,” said a brown-backed      

bee in spring,                              

scrabbling to sip

from a threadbare bloom.

     And nothing was changed

     in the tree’s slow ruin.

“Try,” said the summertime

child who played,

climbing crooked limbs,

dreaming dappled shade.

     And nothing was changed

     and the child grew away.     

“Don’t try,” said a star

a thousand years burst.

“My afterlife’s gleam         

ignites the frost.” 

     And nothing was changed  

     by duration’s boast.

“Don’t try,” said a root

in the secret soil.

“When green, you split rock.  

Now lean with the gale.”

     And nothing was changed

     and the tree toppled whole.

Western Union

Western Union

At a certain level of stress

and constant beleagueredness                

only telegrams arrive from the self.

Just telegrams, which you have never

seen except in movies—not

letters, emails, texts or phone calls.       

It is the form need needs to take

when it is urgent and oracular,

dauntingly declared but not                         

easily or adequately answerable.

Brevity is constricted to a code

and delivery is by a series of discrete

stages, rapid and laborious

as disaster in the Golden Age: 

lips in a lamplit circle 

in an otherwise darkened room

speak haltingly into a mouthpiece,

down a wire to an ear

and fingers striking keys, again

in that aura of soft glow claimed from shadow,

and so on, down more wires, pulses of

meaning pass, changed but preserved,

until they become the slip of dire

handed to you at your own door         

by a uniform without a face.

Standing at the kitchen sink, you read

in your hands under soapy water

what flashed up from your hands in the hall.

Ten typed words ending in STOP.

STOP is what holds you, what you keep

coming back to. The rest

is a cipher whose solution is STOP.

But stop what? Stop this? Stop that?

Stop everything? Answers but not

the answer rise up as the water

turns tepid and the bubbles pop and flatten.

This message, you decide, means mainly

that another message will arrive. STOP,

you recall or contrive, with relief

or the start of dread, comes

in the middle, not at the end.

Soon, you hope. Wish. Fear. Wait,   

since you cannot pray. What

is the point of such a telegram?

you think, then say in an indignant mutter,

trying if confusion and dismay can

grope their way to a hard shoal

of bitterness, someplace to stand.

You know that you are informed

only of certain stark essentials

and by this that you are only a little

informed, and only from great distances.

The Skin of Things

The Skin of Things

Why did they tell me

and I told myself

that what I needed

must be hidden

at the very bottom

of life,

a secret compartment

or treasure chest

only years of commitment    

—work, books, cheques,

tears, vows, dearth—

could hope to unearth?

All wrong. Like an angel

harping at a grave

when it could just up

and fly. Because it’s here

at the skin of things—

this skin, this this, this now—

the surface I’ve been

missing with my digging.

It’s more obvious

than air. (Too obvious

to see.) What air

might surround or be

surrounded by

everywhere. And I

breathe it without breathing.   

Balloon Vow

Balloon Vow

Eat nothing today

until you are very, very hungry.

You are starving

from unnecessary meals.

Snacks of the superfluous

hang from you in folds.

And undelighting feasts

have puffed you beyond sailing.

Bumble Bounce Rag

Bumble Bounce Rag

One bee’s

weight makes

the sprig

of goldenrod

dance: prance

in air

of life’s

scatting chances. 

Lifer

Lifer

Being a student

everywhere impairs you

for a life

surrounded by graduates.

It declares you

to red pen stares        

as something                     

unfinished, perhaps

unfinishable.

Unfit or a slacker,

you haven’t mastered     

beyond thinking             

even the rudiments:        

Person, Place, Thing.     

Your wide-eyed            

fidgeting invokes

something terrible:

perpetual First Day.

What at six             

annoys or charms      

—the ardent frowns,

endless cross-outs and 

what-ifs—nearing  

sixty disconcerts          

or alarms. Alumni       

ask peevishly why        

you don’t just quit 

or hire a tutor      

but you know (having

learned this much) that

neither is the point

or could make it better.

Spill

Spill    

Balanced isn’t equal

when you’re past a certain plateful.

To work, add play.

To carbs and sugar, fiber.

Thumb-rule metrics scan

in primers for everyday,

but fall apart utterly

when real shit hits the fan.

With vigils and disasters

it’s the rush to reinstall normal

that’s most apt to topple

the precarious possible.

In sickrooms and typhoons

only a cartoon mariner           

locates a private Ararat           

from which to salute the wreckage.

You have to be swept away first.

Tacking back from ruin, you may be of use. 

You can’t let yourself

be sucked down, the well-meaning

explain. But their own un-sucked-down

serenity is obscene. 

Getting through

in one piece

is much, very much. Not      

all.

Motion studies show

any walk a staggering fall.

A cup that’s brimful

can’t

avoid spill.

Vehicle

Vehicle

A hornet in

the car’s drastic

when you’re hurtling

through traffic. It

can’t exit for

the rush any

more than you

can. But pull

over to a

curb and it

finds the world

of signs it

longs for or

you just open

the door and

leave the vehicle.

Behind Nichols'

Behind Nichols’

So many things not going as they should

erodes could.  Vision becomes inelastic.

            Time miserly.

Behind Nichols’, Labour Day 1963, we pitched pennies

at the scarred stucco wall, tasting bright

            jujubes as they fell.