Friday, November 04, 2011

Those sweet talking nights . . .


7th Floor, Berkeley, Asbury Park, November 4

I return from the hotel lobby
with hot coffee. The
oceanfront window is open
and I send love to the sea that is
constantly salt-scrubbing everything it touches.
It washes itself as it washes the earth and its
creatures. The bed is rumpled, and my lover is
off to begin her day. Her body haunts the white
sheets of memory and touch. Everyone needs to
be touched. In a just world every bed would be
rumpled and every morning, this one morning,
hot coffee, goodness everywhere.

Wednesday, November 02, 2011

Time it was and what a time it was . . .



Day of The Dead, 2011

Maybe the reason we call it fall,
is owing to the fact that in the
autumn trees dissemble,
the sun, the birds, withdraw,
make their homes in more
distant quadrants. Everything
falls away.

I have always been afraid to think that
life has more to do with “visitation” than it
does with “residence.”

So in this day, this autumn day, I collect all my
bruised goodbyes, and in that colored round
I forage.

I find much leaving,
a space where fall seems all,
that, and grace, and gratitude.