regards

Dear Intolerant,

. . . the inevitable cannot see the obstacle.

 With best regards,
Time

debt

The Truth is no more obliged to Fact
than is a Lie . . . 

discontent

 . . . to expel the notion that there exists some ordered, static whole, toward which all experience hints of This thing or That, may well occur as enlightenment to one and obstruction to another . . . mine is the harassing condition of admiring this duplicity as though were a many-colored light, split by the mirror, reassembled at the turnstile of my mind. My individual madness, if it can be said to be as much, is the terrible prescience of a long letter read, an emptied plate; to learn that all these truths have run their race; that forward and reverse have ultimately settled, after all these tightly folded and unfolded inquiries, into one another's place.

Thursday

(ode to Matt Haggerty)

There's a thickness to the air today, pushing back against all sound, all light;
Tugs the clock hands down; plugs holes where purple shadows
only yesterday
poured from the space where you once stood.
These thoughts that warmed the telephone I used to call you up
to share a drink, to borrow a wheelbarrow, to get a sentence past the goal post;
to hold your head.

I never cared to know how Thursday would feel after Tuesday when you closed the book. You never asked
nor even gave a single thought how I'd resent you.
. . . but it's Thursday here in East Setauket
and I must lace my boots in the thick, dull air; watch the sunlight pour like syrup through the weeping branches to the ground
and move through fractal memories like autumn leaves until the clock hands
sweep them off my face.