you enter:
long-lost memory.
i still fear
your sharp fingers.
i race through black forest
in ballet flats.
glass shards
puncture my feet.
perched on a stump
that’s forgotten
being a tree,
i pull the pain out
piece by piece.
notice—
hardly any blood.
Giovanni Bellini, St. Francis in the Desert, ca. 1475–80
St. Francis
Moved from Venice
To the Madison
Fled the lonely lagoon
For a bigger apple
A thing unique in art
No buyer could hold
the far flung chapel
Installation view of Bellini’s St. Francis in the Desert (ca. 1475–80), in its chapel-like space at Frick Madison
All that is loved
Is locked, indefinitely
In this forbidden altar.
Rusted and abandoned
The walls shake with pain,
Shackled and chained.
Are the memories hurting
To remember, to worship
One another
By chisel, by paintbrush?
I have lost myself here.
I cannot free him.
Try as I might,
This enchanted metal
Defeats the woodsmaker.
I wonder:
Shall I forget him?
Shall I go on?
Shall he live
Without song, very long?
“Daydreaming again”
“Does he ever stop?”
“Reading under his desk”
“Over there, under the tree”
“During recess? Freak”
“Why is he staring out the window?”
“What is that little book he writes in?”
“Dunno. Not chem notes”
“Heard he’s gonna flunk calc”
“Dumbass. Skips physics tests too.”
“There he is again. Book at lunch”
“Different book everyday”
Walking in reality doesn’t
mean accepting the world.
I dream, I am.
Hey man,
been a little while since we last talked.
It’s about time we changed that.
I got to thinking about you after seeing a tree
toppled in the recent storms.
In the crashing, it struck
the branches of another tree nearby
ripping them off,
a tragic scene
of death and hurting
and I couldn’t help wondering
how the scene would be different
if the trunks stood closer together.
You and I are not trees
but our arms can still break.
You and I are not trees
but we can make it back to our feet,
made much easier
when someone can break our fall.
I’m reminded of an old work buddy
I randomly ran into after
many years.
He was shattering under the weight of divorce
but I never texted him again.
A year ago
you and I got together
shooting pool and shooting the shit.
I was able to call a shot
because of the way
two balls were touching.
I wrote a poem about it later
called “Touchin’ Balls.”
To this day, we still
occasionally hit each other up with
Hey. Let’s touch balls soon.
Then we meet somewhere
and talk about life, relationships,
problems,
pain.
It works because we stay close enough
to lean on each other.
There’s no hope for a fallen tree.
But a fallen man
supported by another?
He will one day grow his leaves again.
So
I hope you’re doing well
with all of your whatevers.
I’ve got a couple stories
you’ll enjoy listening to.
It won’t be a needing-to-lean conversation
but it’s good to stay close.
Just in case.
Let’s touch balls soon.
Alpha-gal Syndrome,
is from a molecule name.
It’s an allergy from the sugar
and it doesn’t play games.
Comes from a tick,
the lone star kind,
and when you’re bitten
no mammal meat anytime.
It gets in your blood
and causes reactions
from hives to diarrhea,
and anaphylaxis.
Be extra careful this year
the ticks are extremely bad.
Protect and check yourself
for AGS is deadly and sad.
I can’t say you’re my cup of tea;
that would be unfair to tea.
You’re more like lukewarm tap water
left forgotten on a windowsill.
Or perhaps a frog— but not the charming kind
that leaps through enchanted bogs.
No prince is hiding beneath your disguise;
I’ve seen enough with my eyes.
You, sir, are an off-brand fishing lure,
all glitter, hook, and promise to shine.
Made to catch attention, until you
open your mouth— never worth the line.
The streets I walk
