Golden hour

In the winter,

when night arrives

like an untimely guest,

I climb to the roof

of the world every evening,

in search of the last place

touched by the sun.

It is so little to ask for,

this simple ecstasy,

this golden prayer

on my skin, that sometimes

I worry the Earth is home

to many who do not know

even this. Oh, I am sorry

if you have forgotten

the revelry of stars,

if the concrete

and towering routine

have built their barricades.

If only I could climb

just a little higher

to sweep you a piece,

a feather of a ray

to tickle your skin

and hold you close into

the night. Meanwhile I mourn

the obstacles of this world –

how high we must climb,

those who wish to touch the sun.

Of mice and infinite regress

“But what does this second turtle stand on?” persisted James patiently.

To this, the little old lady crowed triumphantly,

“It’s no use, Mr. James—it’s turtles all the way down.”

— J. R. Ross, Constraints on Variables in Syntax, 1967

I don’t know where the world meets

turtle, or how to greet it. Where do

its feet become oceans? What’s

hidden in the valleys of its skin?

And why a turtle?

Couldn’t the universe hang

from – say – the tail of a great

gray mouse? How the planets

bob and twist as it scampers between

ebony holes and yellow dust.

Maybe the mouse rides on the tail

of another gray mouse, and another,

and another, as they trail like ribbons

across the cosmos. But where, then,

do mice begin and galaxies end?

Mice, like atoms, have thankless jobs,

but I still try to be thankful for what

I cannot see. There are layers of truth

in tails, infinities we cannot hold

in our hands.

Our mysteries rise like smoke

from the ancestors’ pipes, spinning

across the rivers of the wind.

No variables, no limits.

Mice all the way down.

Ghazal of wings

Yesterday the cranes began their dance. 

Do you remember the feathers over the ripples, my love? 

How we used to stand between the slivers of the reeds, our feet

tickled by damp, waiting for the winged gods to land and love -

the mornings spent beneath the sheets of their duets,

the spring, as you pulled me close and we made love. 

The wind remembers every wingbeat of our melodies. 

Can you hear the sandhill cranes calling, my love? 

Some day they will take me to you

and we will become feathers, my love.