If life is a lucid dream or some near-perfect
computer simulation, do I risk waking up
to a world in which I can’t embrace you?
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Promises to Myself if Trump Loses the Election
October 12, 2020
As the Enola Gay has circled overhead, I’ve gained weight,
and obsessed over coverage of its flight: Will we be spared,
or perish? What orders have been given, and who or what will the pilot obey?
How to Survive an Apocalypse
October 11, 2020
Humanity risks extinction because
we love the wrong things too much.
I am under no illusions. To love you is
to resist oblivion, to laugh at craters.
We knew these would be hard years; at least we can laugh,
say I love you, watch for the flags at half-staff.
A Love Sonnet Written on the Occasion of the Death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg
September 19, 2020
I want to touch what aches in us, the light
we guard to stay alive. My dear, come quick.
I hear a knock; I’m afraid. Is it you?
I dare to open and let hope come through.
Strolling Great Hollow Beach, Cape Cod 50 Days Before the Election
September 15, 2020
After four years, it has come to this:
I fear that all I love will go to ruins,
and my little son is playing on the dunes.
Confessions of a Private Grief
September 6, 2020
I have lived as free as a fragrance on the wind,
as shackled to the earth as the vine that produced it.
May I confess in a poem what is forbidden us in prose?
Fluorescent Fire
August 30, 2020
O fluorescent fire, O heat that singes but not does burn,
would that you could consume me, I might never rise again
to brave fascist bullets or heroically weed my vegetable beds.
The Righteously Aggrieved
June 22, 2020
When statues topple, they do little heaving.
You will not see them celebrate long their fall
or mount the wreckage on a wall.
(Who are you to ask that they applaud
your moment of awakening?
I Remain Marvelously Alive
June 20, 2020
In the creak and give of floorboards,
hollow of trees felled by storms,
fists of despots, palms of departing lovers,
click of deadbolts, swing of doors;