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A woman with nighttime in her soul,
I am captivated by

the way a golden moon greens
a blue night sky

the dark-sharpened scent of a
honeysuckle bush
the warm, honeysuckle breezes
that fondle the dark

floating pools of candy-green grass,
uprooted from reality by artificial lights

the cheesecloth clouds drawn
across the mouth of the moonlight
filtering it soft and milky
into my thirsty eye

the way a star can wink at you

the ageless glimmer of Venus,
crown-jewel of the night

the night
that makes me wish
to press my back into the earth so my eyes
may travel upward into the deep
mystery of the dark

After a Picked-Over Meal

sunset over now,
I watch your arms
wade through the shallow blackness
beyond the deepening window
to gather up the scraped-bare plates.

if you come inside
bring in my empty glass
and yours too:
i've filled the pitcher now with something
cool and sweeter
we'll drink it before bed

and sleep a careless night
away

I'll wake you in the morning--
if you'll only come in now--
together, from the garden
we'll watch the mountains happen
in the sunrise

Glutton

Just how many times have I stuffed my face
with these unripe loves like bitter dark chocolates,
backhanded pleasures
biting back at my overeager tongue?

I'll end up paying for so much indulgence.

And just as the obverse of ecstasy
is a satiated disappointment,
I flip over another likely coin
to find it blank, too smooth too shiny:

your heart is a cipher,
And I begin to think my own heart too chapped
to leave out flapping
in the wind any longer

Past hopes that flew too high
are waxen cicatrices clinging brittle
to a weary tablecloth
The feast is over, no dessert

And endless self-recriminations in my mouth
savor better than the plain, unsweetened truth
of dis-self-illusionment

Poem at 30,000 Feet

flying on a cloudy day
rising in an airplane up and away from the anchor
of land
rising through dense, damp white before

seeing the sun

feeling its heat knowing
that people miles below shiver
under lowering gray

watching the sun revealed
through a veil of water vapor

light spills upon the floor of clouds
reflected white as on the surface
of a still, morning lake

your craft rocked roughly by the fists
of the fussing wind currents

above, the blue that fades to black
where the imagination dusts in stars

below, rolling hills, peaked ridges,
smooth plains all white and soft gray,
the landscape of the sky
and somewhere beneath this new ground
falls snow.
a second blanket covering
the distant memory
of the frozen earth.

Ambition-less

It is easy to consider
staying small like this forever,
continually cresting molehills
and imagining them arduous,
planting my pen and scrap paper flag
and reveling in the dirt-speck joy,
raising my thimble cup
to drink a rain drop toast
to tomorrow's triumphs.

I will not think of tomorrow yet,
when I must slide down
the other side to slog
through shallow, mindless flats
toward that hazy peak I can
just make out on the horizon,
the one my talents may never
grow large enough to scale,
the one I might never approach
if I stay small like this forever.

The Great Unknown

How we abuse you, letter x,
stretching you further and further
beyond your sturdy
little frame,

for here you are "ks"
as in sex,
the association that makes
you titillating.
Yet you slip from our grasp
into "z"
while initiating xylophones
in the memories of children
or into "gz"
ungainly center of luxury
to which you lend a certain
elegance.

The Chinese call you "hs"
when they bother with you at all.
The French think you are pretty enough
to be seen and not heard,
while the Spanish aspirate
you to the very edge of "h."
But the ancient Greeks
who engendered you
named you "chi,"
hence your link to Christianity,
crosses, Chi-Rhos,
X-tians and X-mas.
There you have become great
slashes criss-crossing life's map
to indicate a hidden treasure.

Sometimes you are simply past tense.
Over and done with,
last vestige of former relationships.
At others, you multiply yourself
to make t-shirts cover more
and porn stars cover less,
both concealing mysteries
and revealing them.

Long-suffering little
letter x, you steadfastly continue
to mark the spot
while you yourself remain
unknown,
eternally unsolved
in the algebra
of everyday language.

Postcards from Ma Baker

Howdy, Beulah! Long time no see.
Hope this finds you well.
Wish you were here.
(Is this enough?)

Happy birthday, Beulah! Fifty already?
How's the weather over there?
Wish you the best.
(Is this enough?)

Sorry I missed your call, Beulah.
I've been so busy lately.
Wish I had time to talk.
(Is this enough?)

See you on the flipside, Beulah! Sayonara!
Hope you had a nice life!
Catch you next time!
Bon voyage!
It's been swell, Beulah dear.
(Is this enough?)