always there is a last time
something was put away, left alone,
out of sight and mind and
leaving limited marks on being –
gone are small shoes and
tight knit caps,
given over to those that fit them,
yet we remember reading them,
and the book-bound dragons play idly in memory
as we muster for books on Good Topics,
on Adult Subjects,
on war and money and sex,
until these, too,
with tweed suits and last decade’s ties
are put away some last time.

here a pair of large tracks
splay-footed, rough gait,
some big man lurching back from
bars –
and there, small shoes,
angled straight,
good form
spaced for a run,
maybe just cold for the hell of it –
and in this spot are many tracks,
sure-footed, limping,
converging like a deer-path
people coming, people going,
crunching snow and
oblivious
leading right to
where they’re bedded down –
like fawns that have never known a hunt.

Hands, feet, wheels, doors,
all stuck fast,
clinging tight, just as we do –
there is nothing left to do but thaw,
read a book or skim,
call and send well-wishes
and be grateful
that now, here,
we may be so together
even while we’re alone.

Each step counts
though,
one is a favorite and
one is a folly.

Each step counts
though,
the first and the last
are often
most terrible.

Each step counts
and
with a desirous delirium
we may forget
them all.

It’s too cold to breathe tonight
too cold to laugh,
to sing,
words are frozen as they’re spoke
and drop
like dying birds
shattering into the pavement.
Some day it will be warm,
some day,
but those birds will still be dead
and the pipes will not
un-burst.

They say it started in the waters
hydrogen, oxygen,
fathers, mothers,
shallowing up and
settling near,
dirt honed by
the touch of sea
we dribble along the wettened earth
always by the oceans dear –
our skins floating on
inborn seas.

And now,
stretching inland sweeps,
does the ocean
roil and weep
to know of men who live in
Kansas or Nevada,
never hearing their mother’s voice?

Put a little money away,
a little more every day –
enough for a lifetime,
and then,
with sunlight and luck,
finally start to live
and hope there’s some life left.

love is a skill
that must be trained.

how terrible to think,
how horrible to say,
two, three, six,
twelve hours a day
active practice,
no slouching,
learn the ten-and-two’s ,
how to keep the hands cupped,
the lefty-loosie truths of it.

There are tips and tricks
to fake it for a while,
but remember how much practice
may go into a smile.