A moose
on the edge of a cliff,

daring to push to the edge
for the last leaf of autumn

while I am mushroom picking,
watching,

makes me think
that I am so desperate for you

I can barely conceive
of moose or man,

daring to push to the edge,
thinking the first thoughts of winter.
 

Poem With Reversals    

The Knicks are playing tonight,
and there is a chicken in the pot
near boil. You've just walked out
again, and I am not
looking for anything new.
I do not want a kiss tonight.
I have had enough of kissing for now, but you
have had enough.
You never understand the crime
of a man's quiet,
but it's 50-48 at the quarter, a halftime
lead, and I am ready for chicken.

...then, like one who unchooses his own choice
     And thinking again undoes what he has started,
     So I became:

A receptacle, an opening in my gut
became the mood, like an unblinking eye,
and from the widening rut
came the trickling sound of a toothy smile
and the yellow squeak of secret love
between quarters. While
you weren't looking I stopped looking
at the inching score
and the more
I turned my head, the more I welcomed
a kiss. And from my core
I remembered love, but there's a minute till the 3rd quarter.

In a minute there is time
     For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

There is time for reversal,
but there is time for conditions as well.
I will kiss you in the morning, every morning,
and in the growing swell
of afternoon
the mute felony of the evening will emerge,
and we'll have to live with that.
The ruin
of the Knicks is the ruin
of woman and man, and the eternal spat
of wounded centuries is the simple reason
behind the presence of winter and this lasting losing season.