Sidewalks And Signals

I drive on hard and hallowed roads
Until the blue sky stoops, until
My radio receives these bright and
Strong November days. They

Transmit Dylan’s boot leg
Release number eight. The
Buzz of amplifiers rises when he
Breathes. “Once,” he says,

“I had a pretty girl, but she did
Me wrong. Now I’m marching to
The city and the road ain’t long.”
I join the sacred melody; I join

Everyone who moves over these
Highways. We drive, and the
Sidewalks are beside us. We sing,
And the signals bend to find us.

On The Early Miscarriages Of Two Children

Death, you feckless enemy.
In vain, you took two children.
You cannot hold them
anymore than I can grip

the wind.  We are good parents.
We will endure miscarriages
and family absences.
We long for the ones taken,

but you are defeated.
Their names—Speck,
and Pickle—were given before,
given because, given, and

you cannot claim them.
You were uninvited, but we
still took our seats for dinner,
with our living kin,

to pray, to see another’s face,
to consider life in a womb
and form a space
between our digits—About

this big?  Yes!  Can you believe
it!?—We do not want for grief.
O Death, you made us weep.
But here, beneath the Wing,

you may not reach.  You’ll never
grasp the strength that forms
the frailest tiny living
human beings.

The Color Of Despair

An asthmatic stares at a gray
TV.  It warns of red air quality.
Her bathrobed elbow is welded
to a smokey yellow table.  She

does not raise herself to
the window, does not see
the glad dash of children’s feet
racing to the city’s silver
hydrant or believe in
the sunburnt men
who clench their teeth
and open it.  They

tear the hot black street and
find the broken pipe that,
otherwise, would have sent
a brown mud flow rushing
toward her kitchen sink.

The asthmatic strains to
breathe, but does not reach
past the glowering ashtray
to the white inhaler waiting
beside a glass-half-full of
something clear to drink.

Faith, Hope, Love

Faith, awaking from a dream,
Calms the wind and stills our screams. It
Stands, rebuking raging waves and
Speaks that we may be freed slaves.

We stay here in crumbling haunts and
Crumple ‘neath desire’s taunts. We’re
Offered playground swings on chains, but
From the window watch the rains.

Hope, a hungry fire starts.
Sparks fly up and burn our hearts. We
Long for heritage and glory; to be
Great heroes in the story.

Our pallid lips quaff bitter brews. We
Search the dregs for any clues. The
Vestige of our stumbling path
Reveals a way that leads to wrath.

Wearing bold and wild colors,
Setting blazing wild fires,
Love, though we may never say it,
Bests our fine and whited harlot.

Yet we, our remedy, resist. We
Turn away our lover’s kiss. We
Hesitate before the altar,
Scorning freedom’s final offer.