Whatever Is Mine
one
grass
still green, nearly
covered with brown leaves
not so long ago red and yellow
and green not so long before that:
a stippled carpet lying prostrate
before the white-burdened scrub
in the graying sunless shadows of trees
holding themselves so erect, so regal,
even while partially unclothed,
and I, naked with clothes,
in the warm safety behind glass,
wonder if my heart will thaw
long enough to freeze again.
two
in the long-slanted deep light before
dark, children stand waiting in bundles
as listless as moths barred from the warm
light by the diamond-shaped screen of a fence.
the sun set at 4:52.
it is 4:53.
I am not their father.
inside, my daughter
waits, blissfully unaware yet
of what it means to wait.
she cannot see the bright magenta clouds:
she does not stand in the cool gray dark
when I appear
in the present sharp white,
it is as if I have materialized
from nothing,
and this is as close to magic
as I can claim
three
the
movement of the sun
and of dreams and memory
is the very same movement
it passes over the windows downtown
it moves beneath the lids of sleepers
it occupies the mind of dreamers
I own this aching in my heart
I recognize it as mine:
I see it in the pages of magazines
it comes from the speakers in my car
I sense it in the anger all around me
all that is true of love
is now here with me
how does this cold corruption
pass for warmth?
cast whatever is mine to the flames