Saturday, February 16, 2013


When I think
of you, I’ don’t think
you, or hear words
which shield you
against and when
I see you, I don’t
think you are
that image on grey
wall, or that September
is anything but rain and
the world of worms on
streets, sidewalks,
driveways and the chill
in my lungs and the
cough from cigarettes
and words, worries,
wonder at the persistence
of buildings bruised by
rain and you in
the dry space of a bar,
younger, though not
very different than you
are today when you
ask me, “Is it over?”
forty thousand feet above
the Pacific and hours
away from destination,
as though there is
an answer before
the fact.  As though
a half-finished sentence
merits a period.

Friday, February 08, 2013


In 2010 having sailed
past Etna — peek-a-
boo mountain to
port we dock at
Messina and marvel
like blind men might
marvel experiencing
the texture of barbequed
steak yet never knowing
the raw meat which
preceded this point
in its history.  In
Taormina the view of
Etna is shrouded and
the Mediterranean azure
benign — nothing
happening here —
not right now.