once I thought to offer you the stars
cupped in my hands so they glowed like fireflies
I saw them reflected in the glints of your eyes
I found instead I had handfuls of tears
flowing through my fingers like dirty rain
they were mine and you were gone
I flung them to the sky
streaky rivulets that obscured the lights
only briefly then dried to fall again as salt
and I remembered the waves washing against the beach
the air warmed by the summer sun
the endless blue expanse of sky
stark against a hiemal sky
moving slightly to whisper in the chill
words pulled up from roots almost dead
given only to the crows
whatever stories the fell birds fashion
fantasies of bark and pith and crawling things
are their concern and theirs alone
neither the branch upon which they sit
nor the tree of that branch
give regard to such things
the gift once given is in the wind
the broken thermostat the latest shooting
the radishes found forgotten in the bin
the shattered bowl the burning oceans
the mass graves discovered in a construction dig
so much too much this world this world
when all I want
is to see your face once again to rest in your smile
paved with rare jewels
still if you remove your shoes
precious gemstones cut your feet
when a desperate hand reaches out
from underneath the rubble
when it is covered with blood
and finds only hostile air to grasp
what comfort the reason for such destruction
the dust-filled sky the awful silence
the occasional lightning strikes of grief
torn from throats raw beyond measure
what matter now the distant machinations
each of us knows the pain of loss
each of us knows the sorrow
how then do we walk away from this suffering
our own house in ruins
our own bodies wounded and broken
our own voices scraped by tears
not the close quarters at the bar
the small confinement of the car
not the dinner crowd shoppers in a rush
no I know it happened thus
when I ventured outside the basement door
alone in the vastness of the cold morning air
overhead there flew one lone crow
black with a screech and a definite sly mien
who dropped a virus right into my path
my gifts were unacceptable it seems
and do you say “this is home”
placing your hand upon the door
so that it opens into the very room
where you have somehow left your heart
careless on the windowsill
or behind a lamp upon that table
it collects dust like every objet petit a
gets chipped edges and scrapes
will you leave it when you go
unnoticed as dirty smoke
it crawls into the present crevices
then you begin to choke
on all the burning excuses from the past
the skeletal bones of love and the wasted lives
dug up and used as fuel
for others’ urgent desperate needs
and so the cycle continues
nothing new to bring to the change
one day to the other then a different year
this arbitrary marker has no magic
affects not the seasons nor the sun the moon
it drives the senseless drivers of modern life
endless regulations that humans impose
nature has its own time unconstrained by foolish decree
so do I
this bar my respite from the town’s primary occupation
that of presenting facade just as brutal in effect as the original
genteel beauty serves the monied and the tourists
gardened grounds available for a suitable fee
the slave post for trade demolished and largely unmentioned
the crack of the whip and the ring of the chain still echo in the streets
District homes with storied pasts still preside with pride of place
in their shadows long cast labor those who keep them
one day some day one of them will take a match and strike
see how long it takes to burn this to the ground
