Standing on One of the New Whitney's Outdoor Galleries

Standing on One of the New Whitney's Outdoor Galleries

since feeling is first
who cares how the wind
makes love to the trees, running
its gentle fingers through leaves

all that matters now
is how that same breeze
draws stray hairs across your face
as you turn your head to look
at me -

      that smile

wider than any skyscraper vertical,
brighter, than any
known quantity of sun

(Note:the first line is borrowed with love from ee cummings)


What My Father Lived

What My Father Lived

Time stopped.
My Father stood still
at the edge of a dock
built by his own hands
nearly three decades ago

"You forgot to ask," He said.

My knuckles white-locked
around the steering wheel, his tone 
calm, despite the forty-two miles per hour down the 10 mph dirt cottage road

"The Fear," I said. We both knew.

He wasn't them, my father, and
he was. Every last trace of him, left
Between the spaces of What Was and What Would Have Been

(Oh forgive us our Sins of Expectation, Dear Mother Mary, Kali Ma.)

Plans are better left broken
lest they be made, kept, and

I'll buy this motorcycle and burn down roads
We never knew.