Here, I place
a blue glazed cup
where the wood
is slightly whitened.
Here, I lay down
two bright spoons,
our breakfast saucers, napkins
white and smooth as milk.

I am stirring at the sink,
I am stirring
the amount of dew
you can gather in two hands,
folding it into the fragile
quiet of the house.
v Before the eggs,
before the coffee
heaving like a warm cat,
I step out to the feeder-
one foot, then the other,
alive on wet blades.
Air lifts my gown - I might fly - 

This thistle seed I pour 
is for the tiny birds.
This ritual,
for all things frail
and imperiled.
Wings surround me, frothing
the air. I am struck
by what becomes holy.

A woman
who lost her teenage child
to an illness without mercy,
said that at the end, her daughter
sat up in her hospital bed
and asked:
What should I do?
What should I do?

Into a white enamel bath
I lower four brown eggs.
You fill the door frame,
warm and rumpled, kiss
the crown of my head.
I know how the topmost leaves
of dusty trees
feel at the advent 
of the monsoon rains.

I carry the woman with the lost child
in my pocket, where she murmurs
her love song without end:
           Just this, each day:
           Bear yourself up on small wings
           to receive what is given.
           Feed one another
           with such tenderness,
           it could almost be an answer.

My father always said, "early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, 
wealthy and wise." it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house 
and we were up at dawn to the smell of coffee, 
frying bacon and scrambled eggs. 
my father followed this general routine for a lifetime 
and died young, broke, and, I think, not too wise. 
taking note, I rejected his advice and it became, 
for me, 
late to bed and late to rise. 
now, I'm not saying that I've conquered the world 
but I've avoided numberless early traffic jams, 
bypassed some common pitfalls 
and have met some strange, 
wonderful people
one of whom was myself--someone my father never knew

 - Posted from my iPhone

At one of Quentin Crisp's question and answer sessions in his one-man show, 

a girl in the audience asked 'What is the quickest remedy for a broken heart?' 

to which he replied:

'The quickest remedy is that you must learn not to 

value love because it is requited. 

It makes no difference whether your love is returned. 

Your love is of value to you because you give it. 

It's as though you gave me a present merely because 

you thought I'd give you one in return. 

This won't do. 

If you have love to give, you give it and you give it where it is needed, 

but never, never ask for anything in return. 

Once you've got that into your head, 

the idea of your heart being broken will disappear.'

- Posted from my iPhone
I'll tell you, if you really want to know: 
remember that day you lost two years ago 
at the rockpool where you sat and played the jeweler 
with all those stones you'd stolen from the shore? 
Most of them went dark and nothing more, 
but sometimes one would blink the secret color 
it had locked up somewhere in its stony sleep. 
This is how you knew the ones to keep. 
 So I collect the dull things of the day 
in which I see some possibility 
but which are dead and which have the surprise 
I don't know, and I've no pool to help me tell--
so I look at them and look at them until 
one thing makes a mirror in my eyes 
then I paint it with the tear to make it bright. 
This is why I sit up through the night. 

 - Posted (badly) from my iPhone
It was 2006, I was in Boston, taking the green line downtown and had just entered the underground station.
The lines at the cashier windows on both sides of the turnstiles were long. 
A tall soldier, dressed in camouflage carrying a large duffle bag over his shoulder was staring at the lines too, obviously confused. 
I had already pre-purchased tokens (this was before they were phased out) 
and told him to follow me. 
I thumbed a gold token into the turnstiles for each of us. 
We went through and I found the stairs to the tracks. 
A few minutes of waiting I found him again. 
He still looked nervous and lost. 
I asked him where he was headed, he told me he was 
heading to a base for deployment to Afghanistan.
I told him which stop he wanted to switch to the rail trains.
He thanked me and turned to face the subway arriving in the station. 
"Here" I said, and pressed another token into his hand. 
"What's this for?" he asked. 
"You'll need it for the ride home." I said, and walked to the opening doors.


You are there. 
You have always been there. 
Even when you thought you were climbing you had already arrived. 
Even when you were breathing hard, you were at rest. 
Even then it was clear you were there. 
Not in our nature to know what is journey and what arrival. 
Even if we knew we would not admit. 
Even if we lived we would think we were just germinating. 
To live is to be uncertain. 
Certainty comes at the end.
You have learned to enjoy the attribute of patience in itself, for it slows time, honors tranquility, and lets you savor a world in which you are clearly aware that your passage is but a brief candle. - Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
When you were boys we ended every dinner cooked outside on the grill by toasting marshmallows. One day last year I found the perfect sticks at the supermarket. How could I not think of you? Long dowels with pointed ends wrapped in a plastic bag, despite their intended purpose they were made just for getting the marshmallows past the lip of the kettle deep towards the orange and grey coals. I bought them, brought them home. Even though I live alone. 
They sit, on top of my fridge, out of sight. But when I do catch a glimpse of them you're with me, even for just a moment. 

 - Posted from my iPhone

No one's fated or doomed to love anyone./ The accidents happen, we're not heroines,/ they happen in our lives like car crashes,/ books taht change us, neighborhoods/ we move into and come to love./ Tristan und Isolde is scarcely the story,/ women at least should know the difference/ between love and death. No poison cup,/ no penance. Merely a notion that the tape-recorder/ should have caught some ghost of us: that tape-recorder/ not merely played but should have listened to us,/ and could instruct those after us:/ this we were, this is how we tried to love,/ and there are the forces they had ranged against us,/ and these are the forces we hand ranged within us,/ within us and against us, against us and within us.