City Ordnance

The cannonballs raise birds like clouds 
Of smoke and small debris 
From rooftops, or like water if 
Our gardens were the sea. 

The Bridge

The water breaks the bridge 
The setting sun extends 
Into orange neon planks 
Whose frayed unfinished end 

Appears to be, implausibly,
The pier on which I stand — 
Above the waves and fifty feet 
From disappearing land. 

Vacation

The swimming suits and towels draped 
On folding chairs to dry
Remind me of those melting watches
Dali hung out to die. 

Cold Mountain Poem

This is not Cold Mountain, 
But I’m cold, and alone, 
With no one but crickets 
For company, and the clouds. 
I don’t know anything about
The Dao — or anything else, 
For that matter. But then, 
How would I know that?

Flotsam

Like a reverse explosion in slow-motion,
The sun is sinking in a ruddy ocean 
Of Spanish tiles, where tardy birds lie floating 
On terra-cotta waves like tiny boats. 

The Floorboards

Beginning with the one I’m standing on, 
I start to pry the planks up one by one, 
With nothing but the hope that when I’m done 
Whatever might be down there isn’t gone. 
The house I am destroying is my own. 
I have to tear it up to see what’s wrong. 
I buried something here when I was young
Which had the power to render less alone 
Whomever held it, but it’s been so long 
I doubt that if I found it I would know. 
And so I drag this slowly shrinking crowbar 
From room to room, and listen to the song 
Of screeching nails relenting, and the creak 
Of dusty floorboards disinclined to speak. 

Horror Vacui

Restrained by nothing stronger 
Than a frame of thin, white wood, 
The square of black oblivion 
Upon the wall withstood 

The viewers’ searching gazes,
Which fell upon its hide 
Like arrows by Achilles’ shield 
Turned harmlessly aside. 

Repulsed, nonplussed, dismissive, lost
Like children in a maze, 
Or dots proclaiming “You Are Here”
Upon an empty page, 

One by one they wandered off 
To other galleries
And paintings that repaid their stares 
With human sympathies.