Snell's Law (Dear Couple)

Your accents are different.

That is all
though in attentiveness
you periodically panic
that you straddle continents.

But panicking is not periodic,
so let me reassure.

Remember the Bering Land Bridge
exists only under water—
a connection greater
than ocean ships shaking.

Were you impossibly in sync
(two conch shells around one head)
you would no longer be two,
instead overlapped
crest to trough,
no excitement to graph.

A wave alone
misses sea.
The dissonance of consonance
enables horizon.

And what would a world be worth
with no morning up
evening down
lunar cycle
out of step
nooks and crannies
catalysts, substrates
electrocardiograms.

You notice how light fills
the other’s lash. Enough to
cross from alone to another.

From somewhere sound,
to someplace quiet, you each listen
for the refractive index of the other

(like rays of light strike water,
the ocean is yours to walk).

The Eraser

“Who threw the eraser?
Who tripped into whom? Who pushed?
Who apologized? Whose father left
this morning?”

Newspaper on the doorstep:
“Children’s Health Insurance Plan
Vetoed.”

Veto.

It could be a vocabulary word.
“Children, copy it down—
this is how your country’s failing
you. Look I can show you how
to read this nonsense.
There goes thirty five billion dollars
that might have fixed your glasses,
that you sit and bind with scotch tape,
or made medicine for your cough,
even helped you
not get pregnant.

But no, look, the caption
they too haven’t learned to work
together we are trying to teach you
to do better
to be better than this
acceptance.

What can I do but tow this line?
Tell you that the eraser means more
and that this grimace is not madness
making its way to my face
it is how we build a life
around what we believe.

“Make every decision one you mean,
And yes I’ll stop class to make sure
you are proud of what you chose,
yes, we’ll grow slower
but we’ll know
when someone offers us thirty five billion dollars
not to reject it.

The truth seems so obvious
if you let it be.

So,
now,
who threw the eraser?”

Attempted Prism

It is easy to write myself through
the view, my bay window
stolid and sprinkled
with familied children and shouts
of “Watch out!”

But here,
scaffolding rises
around lost little lungs;
hammers hacking asbestos.

In this classroom
there is little
one could understand
without being a fly.
(We are all in too deep).

Windows are barred, dirty.
Not seeing out is how it is,
these things just are
(they say) and each day
fewer anecdotes suffice
to explain this disarray.

I could tell you of the morning
someone’s father left, the belled schedule
holding sadness, little bodies shaking,
eyes glazed straight ahead,
lost focus, wanting the will to wage
the mêlée of yesterday becoming tomorrow, today.

Or I could tell you what we read today
“The apple does not fall far from the tree,”
you see? And a small someone, who once wished
for invisibility, whispered,
“But sometimes, after it falls,
it just keeps rolling.”

And suddenly we have suddenly
from somewhere deep inside we laugh
guttural depths, rule breaking,
baffling, brilliance,
where, for a moment, we smile and know
what it is to be home here,
where scaffolding filters
light to a broken system.

For a moment, we know why
to try, desperately, to prism.

Fall Morning in Prospect Park

I catch myself
talking to the toaster
coaching “you’re not done,”
turning up the heat, slowly
learning the insignificance
of buttons.

I start to think,
if you were here
you might think I’ve lost
my mind,
only there is no you
who might actually think that.

There is the toaster,
who with some patience,
was coaxed to make me smile.

I have a hundred papers to grade,
thousands of words to consider,
constant curiosity,
who will notice, what changes,
where periods go,
how meaning is made.

Exhausted by the thought,
I take a walk—
a pack of roller bladders
stay in stroke,
a tornado of leaves
wakes behind a cop car,
a girl stands to pedal her bike,
a plane echoes in the grass,
a man smiles at me,
another plays saxophones.

There is so perspective—
you can hear a baby here
and a father cry, clutch, all at once
because the rest is even louder,
this land of no comparison
where shadows haunt.

To feel alone is to hear
everything, which is not bad,
only windy where we all must be both
together and separate at once.

Leaves turn,
soon it will be cold.
Pumpkins will patch us through
this October of lonesome mornings,
scattered holidays, little right here,
right now. Amidst change
I sit to think, if there is anything,
I could teach you.

I would like to show
how fleetingly beautiful it is
to be here, to notice, to know.

On Trying to Break Up Well

We're in the aftermath
of a paddle passing forward—
growing concentric circles
decreasing droplets, wondering if
you've sucked me dry.

It is not this simple,
the seaweed has my paddle,
and the river is no sink.
It continues, and we lack drain
pipes or any attachment
to self, still together.

On the bus home,
I nearly fall in
the portable toilet.

Where did the river go?
This is not the way kissing began.
We tell ourselves this is kindness,
romanticize herons
hidden in reeds.

Nurture knows not
where we went
for the weekend.

In the quiet
we hear sirens,
the city calling,
even time.

I will miss you,
I think, as the bus bumps back
to New York City.

September 7th, 2007

There is little sound on the train platform
less the busker’s foot tapping
something he hopes someone will hear.

It is late in the city that never
recycles right. Sleep steals
something daily,
rejuvenation at a premium.

I want to stay later, longer,
have tomorrow come already
when the kids run the halls again
class to class, the rush of routine.

Gaining their attention
I know not yet what
I would like to tell them.
There is a lot
they need
to know
though quiet seems so far
from important
and silence linked with sadness
and sadly something they must learn.

For other reasons we say
“Be quiet!”
Unknowing what words
they need to hear
what it is they need
to be able to
say.

How I Feel About Your Attitude And Your Notebook

I would like to say,
“I’m unsure
what I did
to offend you
on this glorious
morning”
with an ugly, sarcastic grin.

But you will sulk and say
“But I wasn’t talking,”
and I will say
“But you are now,”
and you will say
“But”
And I will say
“I don’t care,”
and it will not be a glorious morning
anymore.

Except the problem is I do
care, which is why I’m here
at this ungodly hour of the morning
wondering how to make you work.

So you really must
mind your attitude this minute
because I mind
when you don’t,
because you’re better
than that.

You are able to write
the moment your father never came
and still name the day you did well,
the way you taught second position.
You tell me the posture you choose, you know as yes
these moments you learn to have success.

“No, you will not speak to me that way,”
and “No, you may not sharpen your pencil
because we’re here to celebrate mistakes,”
the ink of decisions we make
choices again and again
and I would like for you to choose
to listen to yourself learn,
listen to yourself say,
“This attitude is less than I deserve,
and I will not tolerate
the cheap distraction of bad moods.”

Simply, I want you to write,
to take pen and craft
this attitude today to say:
it is my glorious morning
and I will find a real smile
through these pages.

Hoosier

In my new apartment
my father tells me
he tacked the “Hoosier” sign
to the cabinet
after it fell off.

It is my mothers’ cabinet,
their old house files forward
in the rolodex of images
as he gazes at it.

“I couldn’t get it quite right,”

“But at least you got it on”
I say.

I am the sugar
at the bottom
of their ice coffee

Brooklyn Stoop

From two blocks down
I see Marie’s distinctive frame—
the heavy shift from left foot to right
the square shoulders of a coat too big
and a body too frail.

You never know how lucid or not
she might be, shift stepping
towards November’s dementia.

Nobody likes to see an old lady
lost and cold.

In the summer, I thought her sharp,
sitting outside in her folded beach chair,
umbrella above when it rained.

You must know, this is not the beach,
this is a stoop in Brooklyn
overlooking long since paved streets
cracked and simple.

Once a friend passed her
on the way to our place for dinner
and Marie said, “Be a dear and help me
button my blouse.”

And once, my roommate walked her to the nursing home
twenty minutes at her shifted pace
just to find it wasn’t open that day,
then said, “Walk the other way
if you’re late.”

Her daughter lives a few houses down
anyway, there is a gaggle of grandchildren
full of smiles.

She used to work for Ford motor company
and always asks
“How was your day dear?”

We never walk the other way
in spite of ourselves
we learn the value
of being late.

We slow down
to the infiltrating wisdom,
the depressed footholds,
of a Brooklyn stoop.

Hansel and Gretel’s Pebbles

In the back car of the F train,
I hug the subway pole
again.

Lost and full of defenses
listed litanies of why
what I do cannot be good
enough, until you call me
on inability
to accept much moving
forward,

forward is nowhere I think
where there are cores of earth
beneath us, trees
rising with a sense of wonder.
Sense? Senses can’t recreate
the ways I would make
this moment real
with someone other
than this pole.

A child’s eyes shake
as a train passes.

For so long we follow
the light that does not move
seeking faith in somewhere
still.

You are not here, but could be
lost light in a photograph.

Honor Roll

The honor roll is posted
on dinky, pastel colored paper
un-centered and haphazard
between gold glittered stars,
glue-stick gunk still showing.
Kids chatter excitedly
about making it.

They are responsible for making meaning
I realize at parent teacher conferences
when of the mere 37 parents that come,
every honor-roll student is represented.

What hope do those kids have
who won’t even feel the pleasure
of the half glittered star
and poorly hung, pastel paper,
let alone someone who cares?

An eerie calm is all I’ve managed
a place where someone might think
for at least 45 minutes
that they might mean something.

What if, really, no one has told them that before.
Sure someone once scribbled a little compliment about hand-writing
But who ever had the strength to believe
They could make it. Not just say it
Sure some that could do
But who could through and through have thought you
Yes you could have your name in colors
Who drew attention to the blank
Your name could have filled
Who wasn’t scared to say, “Even if I see no way
I will make the time today to not
pretend and really say,
I know not how, I know not where
But I see your soul, and I see it clear
that there are moments
of deepest grace when your eyes flicker
and I know the deep disgrace of you not knowing
that you are eleven
so only eleven, and all things are
impossibly possible.

If I could hold that disbelief
and suspend you
I know you could fly.

Fall Window

I sit by my window
open to the wind
hardening nudity,
as winter comes
to us, confused.

What might happen next
little branch, to which I’ve grown
so attached?

I wonder if leaves ever want
to hear you say their name
even as they fall.

Counter

Sitting on the countertop
you tell me about accidentally
shooting a goose,
chaos flocking overhead,
a swirling cloud,
un-assured dreams.

Dust lifts off the 16-year-old dog,
you pat the space
bread nearly baked fills

I hold my own
knees and hope you hear
what I haven’t said
while wondering what wanting looks like

You say, “To say it
simply.”

I sit on the countertop
and wonder
what your thighs
loosely laid on a countertop
would feel like on my back—
if you would squeeze
my shoulders.

I want to feel your hands
I want to sit beside you.
I want to invite you in
to how my mind trips and falls

narcissistic intimacy.

Commute

Somewhere between tragic and heartbreaking
there is light

down the second avenue tunnel
a boy sits organizing papers
beside two men
topless, passed out
half alive or dead
we rush by.

Above ground two give free
newspapers we refuse,
though those two smile
in the rain.

The avenue smells of garbage, restaurant remnants,
late nights begetting early mornings.

A man ties his tie as he hurries
by, another staggers curb to storefront
head hung, heavy,
heavy the air seems today.

A woman walks her son
towards school
holding a teddy bear.

She weaves him between
the staples of this scene—
pigeons coming too close,
streets cracking at the seams.

The school scuffles
with hip high folk
wondering what will come.

Somewhere between tragic and heartbreaking
there is light.

Advice to a Young Coffee Drinker

I thought
it was a part of growing up,
drinking coffee
without milk

Turns out,
it happens
when you don’t have milk
week after week—

I know, stop right there,
don’t even bother to tell me
I know, I know, you just forgot.

And maybe you started to think
the corner store, so close, but yet
not worth your time
or energy.

You tell me there is value
in simply sipping something
you once thought caustic, and worse
you’ve noticed, it started to taste good.

Begin to worry, what will come
what else you’ll compromise
to make this world work
the way you imagined,
or didn’t.
Or maybe don’t,
but at least keep thinking.

For the morning,
that must be enough.

Star Student

“We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope. But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.”- Barack Obama


I am worried for you
in a way I can no longer afford
to worry for myself—
knowing the limits of my own
hopefulness
the ways I can
pick myself up,

the ways I cannot.
The disappointment of not
getting up again, as high,
of witnessing
change.

You have the dictionary
seeing still (the unknown, be still)
what seems impossible.

Wastefully you wage it
on worthlessness
(those barely tremors
of sometimes laughter)
wealthy you are
with not knowing
the worth of self.

If only I knew how
to balance beam
this axis for you.

If I knew
to teach you fear,
or let you become afraid?

Circuitous logic paves roundabouts
to follow, arriving one after the other
(in rapid succession).

Will your future be merely a tautology?
Or am I to undo logic?
And who am I (?) to undo you
as if future were something
I once knew?

There are always exits.

Train Home

I ate your chocolate on the way home
awaiting canned laughter
only you could make real
by sideways glances.

I am good
at the wrong things,
embarrassed for not knowing
better about happiness.

We are each
other’s inflections.
“I knew I was happy then
but looking back, I wasn’t.”
And you who was,
retort “I never knew.”

If only we could combine these,
lay the graph of future
back down on the past
fill a crater with a mountain.

Try re-pitting a cherry after eating it—
enjoy knowing a happiness
as complex as growing.

But this is New York City,
we’re expected to want
pesticides, hormones,
a way to trope towards sun
underneath an awning.

I would like to tell you
the seed fertilizes, the roots take hold,
the big happiness is worth
the expense of the small—
when you watch the leaves allay
the wind. Cherry trees. Truth.

History insides out
again and you almost open,
again. Your top button
eases—could I slip
fingers in? Cherries unpicked,
remnants of what might
have been. I’ve been
fingering the batter bowl.

Men sing a cappella on the train
someone smells of piss,
blackjack on a cell phone with sound effects
turned on, heavy
collapse into the train
ride home.

Curious

Along First Avenue
houses line up
between what was and what is
boarded up windows
must lie in mere frames
where within light once streamed.

Traversing distance
in exponential leaves
commuters face the inexplicable
blocks of outlines compiled.
Fracturing venom and phloem back
stacked apartments.
Our supposed to senses distribute neural notions
Self-creating disconnections
in search of wonder only alone
in unknowing.

And yet I want to tell you
that this morning the sun rose
calm over the East River
though I did not see it
I know
it did

I wanted to say, “Colors
spread like only sky can,"
(but how afraid was I
laughed and said
something tangible instead
so the image in your head
would bear resemblance to what I see
to me—
though that image would
have nothing to do
with the joy of having seen it
or even you.
And then this pretense would be
simply what it seems—again.
But at least, alas, you will likely not
have disappeared).

Frames discolor and I cannot trace
the person whose memory has been erased
by a new layer of paint that comes and comes
with this continuance
—tan window frames on steely blue
color schemes old and new
inside which eyes have peered
out onto this scene for many years
the woman who sweeps
the same cement squares
past the Polish Deli, daily
kids recycle getting older
tailing rushed mothers
to a place that abducts trust
in the name of self-sufficience.

It rained earlier,
now it’s clear,
seasons never cease,
and I’m stuck
on the sky
in lieu of an explanation
to make me believe in this trek
up and back, up and back
making a journey
worthwhile to share.

The graffiti says snow
though it doesn’t often above subwayed tunnels.
When it gets too warm it rains the many individuals
never known.

Wonder must be collected,
kept, spreading itself before us
unsortable, in no need
of sorting.

A woman spits seeds into her palm.