Taken, Not Found

These days I hold my anger
beneath my tongue like a charm.
Spent all my nights pining
for joy like some left lover.

[The griefmongers hoist up their billyclubs
The griefmongers howl from the satellites
The griefmongers polish collection plates
The griefmongers sleep soundly every night]

These days I realize
happiness must be taken,
pried from between smashed knuckles,
pulled from between gritted teeth.

Synonyms for Anger

The sunlight at noon:
hard, flat, and without mercy.
A bright blade against.

Timekeeping

Your focus is absolute.

Your sticky fingers cup each apricot, giving it a gentle turn

to find the blush of ripeness. You have not seen the thundercloud

that’s slumping overhead, grumbling with the weight of rain.

The bird calls halt into an urgent stillness. In that hush

the pears become pendulums, the flagpole a sundial,

and Time slides by between canal-banks.

I barely keep from leaping in to gather up the water to my body,

to pile it and hoard it, anything  to hold on to your babyhood,

which has left you while I wasn’t looking, swiftly as the apricots

that ripen overnight.     

Already my memory fails me.

 I know that when I’m older it will wash away

and leave me clutching only silt and this:

a photograph of you at nearly four

running through an orchard in the rain. 

Storytellers

We are the dregs of the civilized,

the afterbirth of ego;

loitering professionally in libraries,

alchemists of metaphor,

the most artful of liars.

Is a paper offering worthy?

For the makers of stories
are the keepers of all the world’s brothers.