Read Me

Found a poem,left by a officeron the sidewalkof an unnoticeable building.Like the City’s violation checkerstuck a vivid ticketin your windshield,but for passerby.What did the poet say?We are made of carbon,all in our current formsby chance.By creation.By conspiring.

The Sound Equivalent of Seeing Stars

My–The night wind squeaks.
Or is it the air stutters?
An odd creature is formed
aurally, out of suspension
of disbelief and also noise.
Or, parts of an unseen body
displace its environment.

Next to my air-conditioned
and incandescent filters
of walls, roof, wiring.

It is later than I have
promised myself to rest.
But I keep giving myself
extensions. Could it all
be the balancing
liquids of my skull,
my inner ears? That blank
where I am one of the few
who have no mental images.
And so must strengthen
our other senses.

Claiming Days as our Own, 2021

I tell everyone how

I share a birthday

with the Reverand Dr.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

Though we commemorate it

on a moving Monday.

I celebrate both.

I claim the whole month.

Country songs ask us

to live like we are dying.

Which we all are.

Our birthdays point out

someone changed their lives

rapidly, seismically, for ours.

My father-in-law loves to say

his birth marks an anniversary

of Mother Teresa’s, though it’s really

her baptism date, another kind of birth.

Now we have twins

starting their 3rd year

on their 2nd birthday,

the last day in February

on a non leap-year.

After the wildest two

years of our lives:

birth,

pandemic,

election,

marches,

and otherwise.