Meine Kriegerin

Meine Kriegerin

ist

mein

Frieden, sagte das Land

zu dem skeptischen Himmel.

Can we switch to English?

said the sky. Mein 

Deutsch ist

schlecht. 

That’s

all I have

to say, said the land.

What about my rain, my

clarity, my absence? The land

was pensive

for

a geological

epoch and several

ages, before

truly

mourning.

Jake and the Girl

Jake and the girl

were walking

where there was

snow, along the shoulder

of Quaker Path, to avoid

the black

ice.

Late on a Saturday night,

in trouble by several

hours

with wondering,

anxious parents, warmed

by the oldest

fire,

the two 12-year-olds

wandered on. “Where are

we going?” neither of them

cared

to ask.

The Entire Province of Sanity

The entire province of sanity

was under construction

after

what

some

experts

were calling

a bluesy apocalypse;

so we followed the detours

around

and

back

onto the New Jersey Turnpike

eventually, just north of the Delaware

Memorial Bridge. Remembering her vertigo,

my companion

grew

silent

and anxious, and brave,

holding my trembling

toward

whatever

destination.

He Was Two People

He was two people

in front of her

in the line

for Sbarro.

She really only

wanted something light

like a whole grain bagel from Einstein’s

or raspberry frozen yogurt from TCBY,

but Claire

saw

an opportunity

in his solitude. All

he

had

to do

was turn around,

and she would smile.

She waited

awhile.

A Disembodied Wing

A disembodied wing

misspelled

of

wooden

slats, floats

across the pale

afternoon, beneath

the vermillion

crane,

like

a visual

non sequitur.

The construction

team in their orange

meshy

vests

and blue jeans

could be performing

an absurd

play

on the arbitrariness

of what constitutes work,

to fourth wallers behind windows,

like me,

or passing by.

Jake and Glenn

Jake and Glenn

were in the white, winter

woods behind the field house,

searching for the solitary

oak,

next to which

they had buried $327

in a ziploc. “You told her what?” 

said Glenn, kicking the snow

beneath a naked maple.

“There it is,” said

Jake,

who recognized

the dead, brown leaves,

still

clinging.

The Rectangle of Light

The rectangle of light

across the way

of night

is

literally

a window, in

which the silhouette

of a man or a woman—

I can’t tell the difference—

flits

and disappears,

like my belief.

I need food

for my

starving

dreams, but

I can’t sleep

anymore. The illimitable

glass

of red

wine conclusion

is: she knows your

name;

the one no

parent or God

ever

 

This Is Not a Rehearsal

This is not a rehearsal

for a later performance, when

you will be calmer and more discerning

and

alert.

The patient

is etherized upon

the operating table, in

need

of whatever, now.

So enter the moment

for some testament of cure.

This is not a team-building exercise

toward a later,

greater

act

of purer

authenticity.

In the Generous Cool

In the generous cool

of a calm

July

night,

on the deck

outside her third

floor apartment, amid

her garden of red dahlias

and purple irises and the rest,

rioting out of round and rectangular

ceramic pots, Claire was feeding her three

best friends black bean enchiladas

and a wandering story

from her old

life.

Word by Word, We Dismay

Word by word, we dismay

the fire and kindle

its resolve,

toward some

revolution of feeling

über

time.

This is

hardly an

exit strategy

from the passionate

to the otherworldly

like

before,

our calling.

I watch the light

of my life changing

forever,

in the glow

of your sentences,

as we fall into animal

purity.