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 a selection of poetry from a manuscript in process

Broken Poem

It is wrong to assume
nothing else can be broken.
But dust cannot break,
nor mold, nor ash.

The art broke.
The dishes - one at a time.
The spoken words broke
and the trust underneath them.
The floors, the stairs, the sidewalks
broke. Tables. Toddler's tables.
Pool tables. Inside tables. Out.

The ease broke.
The dreams.
The evenings, the lights
out, broke.
The stars falling, broken.
Bottles, of course, broke.
The night's peace, broke.
The morning's peace, broken.
The afternoons vanished into
into a darkness unbroken.

The pride broke.
The will broke and broke
The will broke and it broke.
The will broken.
The money gone,
broke and broken.

Even the stretching beach,
cut right to its edge,
the waves breaking
without a spread to peace -
That peace, broken.

It is wrong to assume
nothing else can be broken
even when there is nearly

nothing left to break.





a tree with a name
a part of the family
broad Beech tree,
old and gracious.
also ripped
from her roots
also shimmering
in memory
rooting anew
without place





Things that are magic
are unstable.

The spirits live in the grass.
Their dances turn the trees copper.
Their singing embroiders the heart
with joy.

The stars can be moved from the sky
into a lucky hand
where fortune is gifted.
And life is golden.
For awhile.



Chapter One

One word at a time one can
get at it
get at it
get closer

The meaning settles onto an image
that asks to be described
- no this way: specific.
Be there.

What woods?
How cold? How wet?
How wet below whose knees?
How like you -
that hair,
that youth, hope
love of the air around
crawling there
quite actually
between fascism and freedom


the fern fronds
touch his cheeks

And who was that?

How like you?
- like you too much, or you like him.
And both like me.

[- Who said that!?]

Is it a face that reveals itself
or just again that dark wash of spirit
that says,
“Write about me.
I will dictate:

I know you.
I have always known you.

He never really got through his forest.
And you.
You don't have a chance.
Write that.
Write that.
First person:



Should You Tremble at My Door

Should you see my quiet house
and step up to my door

Should you close your vapor hand
and try to form an timid fist

Should you stand there like a child
and want to vanish further still

Do not drop your arm - transparent
but knock, as if the wind.
Or more don't knock, come in, come in!

Please don't ask permission
should you see my quiet house.

Please don't wait
to guess a judgment in my gaze
or, Dear, unsure -
Don't tremble at my door.


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