Apology

Apology
Encore-Winter-Damage-Bloom-1200-630

For the promises I never made, or kept; for the
friends I wronged, or let down, or lost touch with;
for doors I failed to hold open, grandmothers who
bore their groceries unaided, children who asked
for nothing—a high-five or word of praise;

for the Azaleas I let wither, and saplings orphaned
at the nursery, weeping in their pots; for branches
untrimmed, and unneighborly feuds; for the times
I left dog poop where it lay, and the times I raged
against those who did the same; for my many rages,

justified and not; for unkind thoughts, and deeds,
and turns of phrase, though I knew how kindness could
save a life; for the leak I didn’t fix, the mold that grew,
the money I wasted on this, and whims, and petty wants;
for all that I could have fixed, or built, or torn down;

for when I did too little, or too much, or nothing at all;
for cowardice, and conceit dressed as bravery; for
ill-fitting clothes, and shaggy beard, and ill-timed jokes;
for my belief, or lack of belief, in God, in Democracy, in
this or that war; for the peace I shattered with talking...

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Diary

Ages ago I kept a diary in a hand legible to
none but me. I read it on my knees as just-fallen

rain clings to pinecones like wet feathers,
the evening slips into its velvet gown,

and starlight pitter-patters on my head
like drops of gallium. I am thankful

the day is dying, for I have forgotten how
to live. Who wrote those words belongs

to an empire that collapsed under its
own grandiose weight, its high priest

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Enlightenment

I was seventeen when I read Alan Watts’ The Way of Zen
a couple pages at a time, putting down the book to observe
sunset drape itself over my mind, falling asleep thinking
of not thinking, hearing a flock of birds and imagining myself
flapping against the sky and recalling that I am sky. Once,
the book well-thumbed and creased and read twice over,
I felt an ant crawl the length of my arm like a nagging
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Foul Weather Friend

I am a foul weather friend, dear poetry.
I have paid you no mind when spring rains
wash clean the marble statues of gods
and a cheery sun
reads aloud your sweet inscriptions,
nor when awed children skip through museums,
nor accordion-song fills the subway,
nor a stranger does another stranger
a kindness,
nor blueberries are so ripe they bleed sugar,
nor velvet chocolate cake knocks you dizzy with love,
nor, after making love, my wife’s perfume
clings

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