a request

be my star, be it all

the whole and the fragment, the gas and the brake

the soaring acrobat, the waiting net

be the blackest coffee, the sweetest cream

be the scowl on the man with the hastily tied scarf

be the woman clackety-clacking the paving stones

be the bag of volcanic salt in my suitcase,

stored in the basement of a Reykjavik hotel

be the hurt in my hands from writing

be my aging body that finds stealth in the marrow

the vocabulary not rich enough to say how or why

be the man who comes to say goodbye one week

and returns to say hello the next

be lovely loving love-ish for me, 

  all hands and lips and heart

be the air we breathe in and out, urban 
  yet holy and sacred

be laughter and daffodyls

be all the ampersands ever, in every size and font

be every letter ‘I’ in every book everywhere

be the accent on the letter e lifting an eyebrow 

  this way or that

above all, be the woman in the black sweater 

  and red lips

running into the wind, all joy

be the handwriting that tells this tale 

  and the coffee shop in which it is told

be open-arms and the pull of embrace

be everything you are called to be and nothing less

be the one who accepts this invitation 

  and every invitation

who knows no other word than yes

be an expanding galaxy of want

a meteor shower of kisses

be legs entwined and languid 

  with contentment

be the shoes that walk you to your beloved’s door

and be for him the pack of matches that 

  steadies a wobbling table

then lights the spark that shows you both the way

be the one thing you will always remember 

  and the million you will forget

be the one green leaf on a dying tree that shyly waves 

  at the erratic sparrows

be the sweetness in the sugar bowl 

  and the curving tongue of spoon

be the home you long for

be that beautiful ginger dog who will teach you 

  more about closeness

than all the heartbreaks combined

be every single picnic table we will never 

  grace with food

be the weight we will lose for forgetting to eat

be the man you are, the woman I am

the push to my shove

the hand in my glove

the treasured ache known as love

we might fail

there have been two nights

one here, one there

to which we have brought

our observant and curious selves

nights a week apart, now weeks past

that said yes as much as no

less as much as more

and left questions slithering

through the unquick grasp of answers

we each revealed what scraps remain

from the wounded and aging parts of us

that still pulse with shy hope,

scattering them as offerings

on the altar of our incredulity

that years of small talk

seeded such fierce embraces

these fragments may not be enough

to forge a key that unbolts the hatch

we must pass through

to find a language given only to us

and the courage to speak it

even if luck and daring allow us that far

still we might fail to secure

any number of bowlines tossed

across the chasm

between your hopes and mine

yet I, nonetheless, will place

into the palm of your reticence

an invitation to join your fears with mine

and shape these unknowns

into oars we might row

through deep, mysterious waters

in a boat we have yet to name

this way please

this poem's an invitation
a welcome mat
the porch light's on
here's a hook for your hat

the door is open
the kettle plugged in
the strudel is cooling
anytime, we'll begin

chairs i have many
a few cushions too
everything's laundered
and waiting for you

be you fear, be you sorrow
be you many or few
the bramble's been trimmed
just make your way through

where i will be waiting
as still as the lake
i welcome you all
here, have some cake

new york

i love your garbage cans 
Bryant Park, your empty emerald bistro 
chairs, those flat heeled eight a.m. women
sucked into the spinning mouths of shiny buildings. 

i love your playlist of birdcall and jackhammering,
the same menu at Reggio's year after year,
and the Whitman quotes underfoot.
everyone calling me ma'am

your salty-fat two dollar pretzels impaled on coathangers
make me laugh. where did you get those
polite apologies at crowded crosswalks? LUV them!

oh, baby you were fabulous last night:
your Chrysler tip a zippo flame
over Grand Central's implacable facade.
thanks for your perspective, Pershing Square

i never knew how much i loved you, New York
until i watched Denzel Washington 
play Walter Younger on 47th where
Sidney Poitier played him on the same stage in '59

or until i sat here thinking about a pack 
of Nate Sherman cigarets bought around the corner 
in the life i had before this one

it took walking by the Grace building
to know it.

theft

amid the faintly glowing
frescoes and heavy notes
lingering in the organ pipes
we sat, unsure where
to look or place our hands
welcoming, an hour of
platitudes later, the stuffy interior
of the ancient family Valiant   

it's a gift to chose what's hard
i say, as we pull from the lot
arm outstretched through the
passenger window, waving at someone
who might be someone
i know or knew or looks it. i'd been
telling the twins nothing is worth more
than what's made with what's left,
and anything can be true
if you tell it enough.

until i spoke, we held the silence
like a sheet pulled from the line
waiting to see who led the folding
of sun-warmed cotton.
now in the shade of the carport
we decant from the two-tone car,
bare thighs carefully peeled from
the sticky upholstery.
in the unseen world, invisible hands
tie a black ribbon to a kite tail
of colourful bows marking every
other day lived up to today.

including one last week
we can't turn back to and unhear
how a knife tip found its way
to the bottom of Uncle Jack's heart
where everything that mattered was kept.
who's to know what was taken apart
from his life; what remained
in the looted wallet were a few coins,
a receipt from the hardware store
and a list that included
reasons for buying a new straw hat.

there's no better reason for grief
when that list includes
last hat until i die.