4:23

There is both something flattened and ideal
About a sunny lazy afternoon
The brief irruptions of life's movement feel
As mayflies living fast but dying soon
Leaving the statues of the rest of us
To marvel marbly at their sudden sweeps
Wondering why they choose to make a fuss
And opting otherwise. Our slow time keeps
It's insubstantial ticking soft and low
So we can half forget it ever does
And in forgetting nearly make it so
Since time unnoticed hardly even was.
So lazy days pass by immobily
As if we could not act but simply be.

Babylon

The city grew. Not on its own,
Nor by (what rot) directed thought
But by a sense it should have grown
And mild surprise that it had not,
Converted into even milder
Satisfaction that it had.
The city grown was somewhat wilder,
Though all in all hardly that bad,
And  everybody (nearly so)
Was certain it would soon be fixed
(By whom? Who knew). And so things go
By time and random movement mixed.
The city burned, of course, but then
What else befalls the works of men?

Savings Time

The night is come. The dark (of course) is here.

And yet I cannot bring myself to care.

How is it different than what came before?

Why should it matter that the light has gone?

The dark of night is not a cause for fear--

Everything that's in it now was there

During the daylight. So is there any more

Reason to be worried, to go on 

And on about the falling darkness? No.

It is a change, but it is not a fault.

And as I watch the flashing headlights go

Winking out as each comes to a halt

I think I might prefer the dark of night

When each of us provides a little light.

Sense Memory

The smell of moss that's just been touched by rain
Reminds me always of my parents' home;
The hidden house that runs against the grain,
Entered from the side, its fertile loam
Utterly grassless, with a few tall trees
Emerging from the lichen on the ground,
Its windows shuttered 'gainst the western breeze
That, broken, slowly blows from Puget Sound.
I think of setting forth beyond the gate
Seeing the broken pavement bent by roots,
The saddle-hill that drops off to the lake
And wondering if I'm already late
To catch the bus--or if its twisting routes
Have slowed it to the pace that I can make.

Up

It comforts me at night when I'm away
To know you're looking up at the same sky
And that the stars that faintly touch my eye
Are shining down on you as bright as day.
I like to feel that if I could convey
My thoughts to them, then they could turn and sigh
Them back into your ears, so that when I
Stare up and long for you, you'd know. But they
Are deaf. And so I sit and write
Keeping the starlight in my heart and pen
So it will shine to you across the screen
In every word pinned down in black and white
And when you look up to the stars again
You'll think of me, and what I'd have them mean.

Inside Out

As the cold again assaults the land
We huddle closer, desperate to get warm.
Yet I desire you as close at hand
As this in summer, when the fatal form
Of burning sunlight coats the world in bright.
The seasons change, and change, but this remains:
From heat to chill, from blooming green to white,
I want to be by you. Our love ingrains
And teaches us in being loved to love
So that each touch, each glance produces more
Whether the winter sky whistles above
Or summer thunderstorms begin to pour
Still we shall cling together close and say
Our love is warm, whatever is the day.

Green land

How much would it be better if they knew
Their lines? If such emotion can be drawn
From minds that unremember what has gone
Before, then how much might they come to do
If all could be remembered through and through?
It would be like the rising of the dawn
Upon an arctic land, a frozen lawn
Awaiting melting. Oh, if it were true!
For then the show, like Anchorage in spring
Should see itself and pleasure in the sight;
Letting the months of summer warmly cling
Knowing the winter and the endless night
Are coming, but enjoying for the time
The pleasantest environ of the clime.

Parallel

The games you play

Upon your phone

Won't go away;

We're not alone.

But even so

I do not care

As long as you 

And I are there.

I play as well

We watch TV

And I can tell

That you love me

Because we're us

And happy thus.

By a sleep to say

I cannot help but think that day's not done
That ends with us apart. It cannot be.
What would be the point of it? You see,
It can't have ended, or even begun,
If it is so. I am not in denial,
Or totally incapable of sense;
Nor am I in the state of innocence,
But rather well prepared to make a trial.
I prove it cannot be by logic, thus:
I would not voluntarily submit
To such a state, and, if forced into it,
I'd work myself into a royal fuss
And could not sleep. Therefore the day would still
Be paralyzed for me by my own will.

Content

There is no place I would rather be
Than in your sight--ideally by your side.
And if there's one thing I could never hide
It was the fact you meant something to me.
And now I have you matrimonially:
My one, my only, and my loving bride.
So now, content, I usually abide
Except in cases where, as presently,
You are away. And then I find again
The yearning opens and a different sense
Invades my soul--I feel my former yen
No longer sated, but regrown immense
Reminds me what it was to lack you--so
I want you back, to never let you go.