Like Angelic Clocks

Like Angelic Clocks

(“I will always look to you, as you stand beside me and protect me from fear.” Psalm 16:8)

I’d sit here forever if it could last
one more minute like angelic clocks counting down
the crevasse between dinner and lunch.
Those empty afternoon hours fill more than
straight-line pages of poetry jotted down to
cross the impasse between being and July.
Summer is a luxury;
noon is a magician’s wand;
dusk is a certain measure;
midnight the loon call with moonbeams
setting the backyard cedars on fire like
origami crepe paper. I wouldn’t blame you
if you scratched your head while I cut
a whole sentence out of fabric I found at
the Goodwill.

I’d invite you over for a beer;
I’ve wondered if you are aware that
your breath has moved me closer to shore
than I have been in twenty years.
I don’t mind the ocean, but the salt
has blocked my pores. I need a second
sunrise before we embark on this second act.
I don’t mind if the curtains fall,
I don’t remember the marks. I was cast before
first call. I knew what sparkle was;
I knew how daydreams swore. I wore
every word you unwrapped for me like a
t-shirt with an unknown logo pointing us back
to illumined mornings. We could hire a boat
to take us further from shore.

I’m in the mood for an adventure today.

Contrails

Contrails

(“But when the people of Israel cried out to the Lord for help, the Lord again raised up a rescuer to save them.” Judges 3:15)

I’ve got the graph of my life trailing me like
the contrails left by private jets writing nonsense on the sky.
Look closer, for the graph is longer than the quick glance
at a winged point upon the bright azure background.
Seen from the ground and looking over head, the graph is
a long snake; some segment a lazy “s”, and others multiple
“z”s
tracking the quick turns when change came unexpectedly.

Seen from the ground, my life was not up and down,
but a series of oases separated by journeys; a path or
a highway; a pattern or madness; mapped coordinates
or advised itinerary; few turns were solely my own and
most were leased opinions with fewer options the
longer I flew.

Seen from the ground, my life was not fall and rise,
but a curious adventure where the present is a line,
focused and fine;
and the past is fading the further behind; a broad brush
of recollections and uncertain directions with fewer
alive who knew the truth of my first years of flight.

On a rainy day you may catch me squinting toward the sky,
one hand covering my forehead, one hand reaching out “why”,
and you would hear, from this fellow wanderer, the same prayer
he prayed, “s” or “z”,
“I’m not sure how I got here, but won’t you please rescue me.”