For What It’s Worth

I’d repeat my sons exactly 
as they are, even the one

with the now blue hair still asleep 
at the foot of my bed. I’d repeat

the night I met my wife and even
the middle years of purgatorial sorrow.

Three times, at least, I’d repeat last 
night’s sunset, of which I could see

a framed square of downy furrows 
deepening from rose to bruise

while I sat in the filling tub, book 
in hand, already part way out

of this world. Though it would not 
bring me any joy at all, I would

repeat three times the day I did not 
pull the trigger, or the day I almost

pushed the sharpest knife 
we owned between my ribs.

Three times, at least, I would 
enter the water, walking toward

the sun, the water needle cold, 
all of it, in its own way, surging

toward an epic repetition— 
I may be on the other side

of some things, but I have not 
yet seen the longest night.

How to Love the Unfinished Dream 

There it is again — that
little pop of possibility 

sparking in my brain.
It’s an effervescent joy

I can map out fully
in my mind from blue-

prints to the manual. 
I have all the tools

even & the know how. 
O, what a bit of bare sky

& sun will do
to a winter mood.

It is the purest heaven — 
& the only kind

I believe in: brief
& ending the very moment

awareness mounts 
the stone staircase

of the mind. It was 
good though, wasn’t it?

That little bite of bread 
after so long without —

Four Years to the Day

but I am still crushed
by that old devotion to drink

to the dream of bitter floral notes 
of hops in iced cups on repeat

the swoon of a binge 
my daily homage

to the excess of nature 
the overkill of spring

my immaculate tongue always 
ready to indulge

the deluge of a want 
I mislabeled need

even though years pass 
in which I bow & bow

to nothing nothing 
bows back

Cocoon

After years of binge my hunger 
was suddenly gone I became still

for three whole minutes during which 
a curt north wind dusted my sills

with a memory of ice everything changed then 
I put aside my sickle and walked from the field

though the day was young and found
a shade in which to begin I did not think

about the task beyond that it felt when noticed 
like nothing more than breathing

I began with nothing to show
and soon a veil of fibers around my feet

and soon a quilt that felt like knowing 
how to dance and dancing well

and so I spun for what else
was there to do I no longer went

out I didn’t know how to be
a friend or father I didn’t know

what a lover was I stopped 
pretending the world was to blame

I was inside with no story 
to save me from myself

Apologia

Whoever said stone is unfeeling
does not know the measure of all feeling.

Channeling stone can save those that 
would float away into realms of grief.

Holding against the storm,
I sit with my wife as she sobs.

I am, with my life,
carving my apology from this stone.

The Return

Here I am again, 
staring out the window,

watching nothing
in particular happen

to the trees. I hear 
a raven make

from nothing
a sound like a drop

of water—that 
sound falling

into the cavern 
of my brain.

How does one aim 
toward nothing

without tripping 
into nihilism?

I banished the drink 
in order to live.

I returned 
to myself

by making room 
for nothing.