this city is a woman
said the man on collins street
he held a brown bag of fortune
his eyes were salt
someone must love
this body of his
(i wonder if he beats her?)
over tall towers
gulls wheel and rise
trucks stomp and groan

to love a woman is
to try it out for size
what it is to be
a swollen fruit
i too, have a heart
full of redness and
dark seeds
i too, share secrets
and dark truths

Strides we make in life’s long journey
The things we acquire, who will own them?
When the sun sets, bringing darkness to bear
On glitzy cars, houses and fêted moments
When tints of candle light are left behind
And the eyes opened to see in silent night

Some may say, the dead have nothing
When material reality is a by-product
Of the coming and going from this world
Others may say the dead live in our recalls
Had names, and if not, just call them things
For something can not come from nothing

It's been more than thirty years since I gave up smoking
but I never wrote a poem about my secret craving while
draining the spaghetti, waiting for you to come home

don't have the habits no more that led to old habits
rising to the ceiling, declaring their independence,
while listening to Billy Collins read his poem
about his last best cigarette,

Do ghosts of Clovis people walk
in woods beside me as I wander?
Are they with me as I stalk
sharing every hunt, I wonder?

I've found some shards they left behind
both in forests and plowed meadows.
Each time I do it brings to mind
I'm not the first to walk these sylvan shadows

In the low rustle of oak leaves
are those muted whispers that I hear
woven among the gentle breeze?
If so, the soft words are unclear