The Ship

The ship

was not wrecked

but ceased to enjoy

the sea

and its own



As on a by-passed day

when the Self

so willed

to find a sharp

and 90 degree meeting

and rest there

a bit

facing away

from the room

it also created

when action





Too illuminated to defend  . . .


Shacks of former palaces

too filled in hubris

to go without for a night.


Too dark for offense


the new moon cast obsidian on

the troops


Stole plate –no, saucer-

from the sky

as soldiers wait

for tea and coffee

to be served.

The table was wiped clean

for sommelier to present

the next bottle,


Rioja spilled on the ground


The soil took it in

as mystics did other wine

with the scribes

centuries before when the levanter

blew in

the familiar scent

of home

on their new houses.

Subject To Time

 . . . eyes stained with clouds . . .

-Joseph Brodsky, “Törnfallet”


And smeared with the smoke of tailpipes

are the legs

all the way through

these brand new jeans.


The chest took a bullet from the expanse

and left it blue

to prove that space

fills everything


And distance is not subject to time

they’ve been


Get used to it as eyes drift from books

and up to the sky

Anything can change

even if only

for a trial run.