Inspire me with a word. — Whisper, give voice
to the turbulent and the still. Set in
motion this moment's passage. Let in
the illusion of perfection and choice.
I travel to you, with you, by cleaving
to noumenal knots; raveling radiance
by typing alphabet's seductive dance
of come and go, returning and leaving.
Let me be frank, state simply what I mean,
articulate the stands I take, express
concern, love, hate fear and hope for the best
of all possible moments in this dream:
give me the art, the touch of the artist
here let me reside in lines and context.
When I Dream
This poem is
the product of
a pen's small motions,
measuring our borders
with a line that bends
along the dream.
Language moves minds
of involvement and withdrawal —
rituals of obligation,
passion and appreciation.
And the anguish suffered
by a break
in the pattern
of another art.
In Lieu of Hubris
(Remembering JFK, Jr.)
Mist clothes his waiting.
His tongue's trapped in a riddle.
The craft to Ifland taxis forward;
this journey makes a separate
motion over his absence from it all.
The moon is bedded in
an anxious cup of coffee.
He looks to prepare his
bargain with inexperience
for a conscious spark in the sea.
The plane rages against
an aggravation of sky;
and once his lament collides
with events, he drops
a moment into memory.