In The Rooms of Henry’s Gabled House

After Spicer, After Lorca

In the rooms of Henry’s gabled house, the drift of years is endless
snow and salt shaken down.

He lost his way, this spirit seasoned by the color white. He walks
on a frozen carpet made of memories,

numb to the chill, blinded and frostbitten. Without eyes or thumbs
he suffers nothing in those empty rooms,

but the wind’s lonely quiver. How deep a wound those walls concealed,
how old a scar they left.

The snow, it only drifts now; the salt, it only stings.
In the rooms of Henry’s gabled house, the drift of years is endless.

“Sometimes I can feel my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.”  —Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

“Sometimes I can feel my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.”
—Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

A Point Within Limits

Time is a dotted line, more or less,
traced to the scale of an open palm

on the dented sheet of space
from here to there, from now to then,

from wrist to index knuckle. Each dot
a blinking instance,

life marked by uncertain events,
blind curves and leaps of faith,

all founded on a measure of disorder
and energy, lost or gained

at the click of that instant
where the physical meets its limits.

And each dot, each point, each moment
is as short or as long as the last rush

of its own annihilation. The speed,
the heat, the light of which depend,

at once, on a scaffolded framework
of experience and how each perceives

the events and unaccustomed intervals
in the movement from start to finish.

Without Delay

Time. It’s just
A matter of
Time. It’s just
A matter of
Time before
This matter of
Mine is dust.

AT THE MOUTH OF SAN FRANCISCO BAY

The old rock
white

with the bird
shit of ages

hunkers down
in

rough water
a place

of rest
and

the bawdy language
of gulls