Unwashed

Such memories don't get washed out back to sea, 
to be unseen, lost in the turmoil between 
once a road and network or paths or labyrinth
but there is no power to lift up the darkness 
from the heart or the dead, darkened by the sun
from a blue sky where once a wind howled 
with belligerence, road rage, red-faced, pummeling
but of course, there is no remorse
for a hit-and-run victim, bloodied and abandoned 
on the beach like pebbles, shells, white sand, 
overrun by waters, moving to and fro.

* Written with the super-typhoon Hainan Filipino victims in mind.

Of dust, paper, and steel

There is silence in the white space where there are no words to read,

unsure where is here or there, the near or far, the up or down.

Only stillness where time appears congealed, undefined. Am I

floating? The pavement, unseen, sticks to my feet.

What is the sound of black smoke when a poem burns like Twin Towers,

its lines give up, collapse into a heap of bodies of pages, dumped

from the sky, into that open space, with unfinished thoughts?

On the ground, the words had split apart, paper from meaning.  

Is there art in twisted metal, shooting from piles of concrete and shards 

of glass? Or in the new daylight against pale walls and broken windows, 

piercing the left-over mist among the quiet dead? Here, the brave

races to a black door, to enter into white, undefined spaces 

where no sound escapes, no colors are seen, no memories

of black smoke and the weight of onrushing ground.

Boston from where I sit

I-93, red and orange, leaves shift, fall
with the breeze, cool, warm, between them
the early light speeds like cars against
a morning sky, a golden dome, where freedom trails
a youthful smile, the pavement under shades
of trees, the coffee cup, bagel, in open air
the turnpike, to say good-bye to clam chowder
to Denny’s, to autumn, red trees,  red socks
the red, bloodied earth, and to a hundred
pairs of feet.

To Measure a Woman

There is no physical equation, 
invention, or mention outside 
of dimensions, of lengths, of depths,
of curves, in fairness, of fair skins, 
of long eye-lashes, of duration 
of glances, of swinging hips, of lips,
red and wet, glistening in the light, 
like an object of study, peered into, 
hoping to measure and predict
the consistency, inconsistency of you.

Denied of tools, formulas, or numbers, 
with myriad variables, changing 
constantly like weather patterns, 
still I, fool-hardy, walk your days 
promised as full of summers, 
but cared less for thunderstorms 
that came instead, soaking these hands
that held yours I would not let
slip off mine, wind-blown away
like rain drops.