Via Negativa

Closer to thought 
than to sense or even
sensation— the idea 

that what was rent
may never piece 
together again.

Gold is 
used for certain 
kinds of mending—

malleable and
moldable, precious
commodity. In war-

time, you'd bury it
beside a tree or 
swallow it 

whole to make 
it part 
of you.  

At the bottom of any bright glass you might hear a slow fizz;
       bubbles going flat, the air gone pfft and stale. You worry 

constantly about how much time is left— down the apex, 
       down the drain, careening grains of sand. You harrow 

every plot that's been handed to you; no good at improv,
       fake it till you make it. Or at least you try. Like kudzu 

grown wild, your sorrows would thicken given the slightest 
       helping hand. Instead, you sharpen drawing pencils, 

index the contents of notebooks (and also the refrigerator).   
       Just keep your head down nine to five, neuf à cinq;

keep your ducks in a row, your nose to the whetstone. Skip
       lactose-laced drinks and put in some daily cardio.

Mind over matter sometimes works (ha, like for an abecedarian).
       Never thought you'd get here, but here you are, madam.

O for days that promise endlessness outside the archival;
       plush nights before everyone is marched into the ark—

quartets playing in the background could render a long hajj
       reasonably pleasant. Send a scout to look for nuclei,    

seeds, and an island on which to engineer a new start. High
       tea at 4 after labor. Not yet time to pre-empt dying.

Use it or lose it, but mind what you choose says the bailiff.
       Vanquish the vapors, toggle letters to turn bad to bud.

When you do come to the end, it'll feel and taste like the end—
       Xanthic clouds and burned cities; time of the apocalyptic.

You're not quite there yet, though. Outside the tomb,  
       zest from citrus orchards still wafts up to the azotea.     

and bookshelves. How many pages can you read before you're
    zonked? We were just talking about Italo Calvino— his               
books ran to over 9,000. He didn't get to read them all, but
    you know how it is. When you find that long-desired
copy of a title you heard of or was highly recommended, no
    xerox or digital copy will do. Desire = pleasure =  
dopamine released: visions of curling up in an armchair,
    warm socks on, a book in your lap— deliciously,  
endlessly satisfying. Also, a way to carve a little respite 
    vis-a-vis the terrifying commotions in the world.
Factories of fear seem to be in full production, while  
    unread books invite the past to speak to the future.
Game over, eternal doomsayers cackle, while fleecing
    the pockets of the populace. What do self-serving 
hacks know about close reading; about the allure of 
    safety and scholarship, the sexiness of real 
intelligence? In a novel set in wartime, a nurse  
    reads from Herodotus' Histories to a burned patient.  
Justifications for war notwithstanding, how can you
    quibble about our longtime love for romance,   
kissing furtively in the bookstacks, the thirst for   
    palliatives that deliver? Every story is about
longing. But every good story is about how we try to   
    outrun our fate. When I come to the very last  
moment, I slow down. I don't want it to end,
    not yet. Not even after I have surrendered.  

The Doctor and I begun philosophy discourse exceeding pleasant. He offers to bring me into the college of virtuosoes and my Lord Brouncker’s acquaintance, and to show me some anatomy, which makes me very glad; and I shall endeavour it when I come to London. Sir W. Pen much troubled upon letters came last night. Showed me one of Dr. Owen’s to his son, whereby it appears his son is much perverted in his opinion by him; which I now perceive is one thing that hath put Sir William so long off the hooks. By coach to the Pay-house, and so to work again, and then to dinner, and to it again, and so in the evening to the yard, and supper and bed.

gun show me
some anatomy

a pen is a pinion
I am off and up

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 28 April 1662.

They come together in spring or summer, 
recalling the old timbre of brass bands, 

the vision of younger sisters waking at dawn 
to put on majorette's costumes and high boots. 

Their towns' most handsome will smile and wave 
from flower-bedecked floats, and queens touch 

the edges of butterfly sleeves, lightly holding 
the pearl of a smile. Though now in other climes, 

neither frost nor sun dampen the shine of chrome 
nor the flourish of cornets and euphoniums. Saints 

dressed as children or carpenters, farmers or 
fishermen are borne aloft in the streets, gems 

of paste winking from foil-covered crowns. Rice 
grains turned into petals dyed yellow and green 

curtain each window looking out— not over fields 
and volcanoes but train tracks and city skylines.  

Sometimes I hum as I wield the knife

over the rind of a potato, over the coarse

grain holding in the sweet gold of a squash.

Some mornings when I wake and feel the old 

familiar tendrils of that unshakeable 

sadness brush against my cheeks, I want 

to curl back into the shape of my own 

skin. It takes tenderness to peel away 

what held you so long in the dark. 

And so, much as I admire the self-

containment of the daikon, also 

I can't help loving how it's blushed 

with the palest stroke of green.