Ithaca, also, was built on the water

river rocks

I am dreaming again of riverafternoons
and your sunlit irides, floodlevel love
on time we borrowed until we stole.
Funny how the past you think of is never
the past that was; the present tenuous as rain
streamlit down the windows of my old place
by the river, all plateglass & whiskey;
my future self’s heart pinched between thumb
and dirt-traced forefinger, whirlpooled in muddy waters,
slipping over rocks. If I knew her now I would say
never mind the scars. There is peace even in the drowning;
the trains will sound their slow mourners’
wail over curves of forever, tonight’s tornado
warning only a siren on the horizon.

on Good Friday the poem

#RVA pipeline

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
–T. S. Eliot

is about hope, how I saw a single heron
on the riverbank and, telling you of him
at the end of a bitter day, you say
I think they must be coming back.
about the note you gave me not
two weeks ago, tucked away
in my coat pocket against the still-
cool nights; how not everything fades
so quickly. this morning,
a quart of strawberries
was ninety-nine cents at the market,
so I counted out the change and I think, after
this cruel spring of shallow breath and repentance, we
will know the gasp & fire of riversummers again.

Williamsburg Road

urban weeds

East of the city,
there are tall pines standing
scant and sentry, as if they knew
this were the road to the ocean.

Amid dandelioned lawns
and asphalt wasteland, gas
is cheaper, repair shops
like mushrooms:

frequent and lightly
unsavory. On Sundays
at the carwash,
every concrete cave

is full, as though
we could siphon
off the week’s sins
with high-suction

hoses; April
has always been
a month for pollen
and repentance.