The pastel snow
that never darkens
in the suburbs
plumbs sound out of night:
an errant plow,
rerun siren.
I sit by a window
and finally know
that religious belief
may not be able
to thread you
through the needle
of the impossible
without tearing
your wings off.
Two Paths Diverged and I Took the Vertical Rise
charmed by holy men, women hanging on
with gracious teeth and children who had
suckers on their feet; crowds that danced
precariously, drinking
to forget the angle. I chose the
path for spiders, guillemots and gulls
black and white apparitions with
many legs and none of the expected
sense of vertigo. Although I tried
to enjoy a meaningful life where
each step brought me higher and each
struggle was infused with muscle and
a denial of gravity,
eventually I tired of the
vertical smiles, standing
180 degrees at attention,
and holding so tightly to my children’s
hands. So, I plunged and tumbled
back to the bottom. The other
diverging path was nowhere to be
seen but there was a suburban side
road with buttons to select walk signals
and a public school at the end of
the block. Through the long hair of September
radio shows buzzed and coffee shops were
filled with things that make
horizontal life bearable,
even happy. These days I
sometimes still see those people from the
cliff, as they rush through the supermarket
clinging to the shelves, their children careful
not let up toe holds on the cart.