the world becomes a little colder

mid april,
the last wind arrives from its forgotten country
beyond the undulating questions of the sea, carries
on jutted shoulders her glacial scent, tundras
and frail purple fragments; your memory of it
— at once heartbreaking and frightful —
is familiar, like an old friend who may have
betrayed you in a previous life.

these days
i am held aloft only by this wind, which is to say
nothing tangible: a junction where two pressures
lead into one or one diverges into two —
the shame of it comes later,
familiar as tropic fruits, their skins
lachrymose and bitter; but still
the wind finagles her entry.

high noon,
just past the sempiternal curvature of morning
these junctions manifest again,
devastatingly metaphorical: two paths into
disparate tunnels like tumors in a cliff —
you are haunted by your old life, as you walk,
as you bite into a pear — the frequency
of junctions disturbs you.

an ending
drone emits from the mountain’s manifold mouths;
shame is the afflatus of the little green
in an inhospitable land, what i lack,
what the morning withheld in its secret heart:
a traveler on a path into darkness, lost
perhaps doomed to exiguous light for
the remainder of his years.

on time
the tunnel swallows you whole, an unmedicated
pill exploding into foolishness: the burrows
are merely overpasses, the daylight
marred only by terrific shadows — yet
you are never certain until the light speaks,
fills you with luminescent relief, just how
much the passage will take.


You think you know what happiness is,
a big train filled with steam

and everybody’s jumping aboard
to some eager and relentless forward;

Or later,
it’s the unexpected return of a relic
from when constellations were
still young
and unaware of their places in the sky.

A waiting game then,
for those pistons to tremble in —
that far-off whistle
a little too far-off,
or that “later” just a little too late.

When you stepped onto the station’s wooded deck
there was the ostentation of finding something,
a destination maybe

But you never stayed.

One starless night
you wandered off those tracks
and there it was:
the better bright
of your own backward ways.

* * *

For those days when we’ve lost the ability to express ourselves in human terms.