On cold winter mornings
	in Santiago,
	I wanted a typewriter —

I looked at the machines
	in the repairman's window
	each day as I walked to work —

There was winter prose,
	trapped in the keys,
	waiting liberation —

I always passed by,
	never entering once —

All that English
	still languishes cold
	in Chilean solitary.

Waiting is
	gray and cold
	even in summer —

Jorge waits in line
	two hours a day —

And Norman says
	when he's in line
	he's doing something wrong —

Queue shortening,
	fruit ripening,
	tank filling,
	baby entering world,
	life ending,
		most tedious of all —

Always in the future,
	unfulfilled anxiety.

Friends, lovers and enemies
	are the line —

Alive, feeding itself
	each other's memories
	fusion of parallel parts,
	forming and reforming
	during lifetimes —

I intersect an instant
	and live a series of isolations
	in a queue alone forever
		and quickly forgotten.

Two old cats live with me,
	as healthy as two year olds,
	each patiently hating the other
	and loving me these many years —

Universal constants,
	I should have named them
	Hubble and Heisenberg.

Rolls, babysitter, medicine, coffee,
	you're on my mind —
Try to work, talk, talk, talk,
	you're still there —
Checks, flowers, books,
	(once, you wrote to me)
Cook, dishes, pack, eat
	(your eyes across the table)
Tired, exhausted, lonely,
	sleep — bed.

A spruce of some sort,
	dense with painful needles —

Somewhat taller than
	the six year old
	who had taken a sudden interest
	in something other than a Star Pine
		bent double with
		its weight again in ornaments —

After twenty years,
	that scent of indoor conifer
	was ecstatic.

Today, I talked and talked
	about bacteria and
	other little things —

I talked and talked and talked
	while snow fell outside,
		silently, gently, adding
			onto itself,
		blurring my morning tracks,
		burying my car,
		erasing colors, blacks and grays —

I left my white board
	covered with red circles,
	blue arrows and black words,
And entered my white world,
	soft white mounds
		on flat white planes,
	white sky,
		white air —

Speechless and lost.

Sun layered gold through green
	onto black snow
	Christmas morning —

Gwyneth, dog supreme,
	loped silent snow paws
	through light and dark
	of forest dawn —

Saw bear lumbering
		to winter sleep,
	bobcat,
	spruce bough settled,
		with curious gaze —
Gave chase at imagined nothings
	floating in air ice
	great dog noises snow-muffled
		making silence silenter —

Finally circles into white nest,
	smiling at bear protector,
	who dreams of crazy cat,
	who laughs at dog below —

Three creatures
	sensing a brief perfection —
		right place,
			right time.

Now, I have
	this solitude returned,
	once so prized,
	a moat childhood's monsters
		could not cross —

Even you
	are now repulsed
		and flee.

"Crystal White Detergent"
	-- that's mine.
		'That's nice', he blew, no words.
	You knew just what he said,
		with that two-note thing,
		biting hard,
		filling cheeks,
			screaming
		tearful logic,
		love, much chaos:
'Pale wrist submerged'.
	'Beat that', he blew,
		and I, with
uncharacteristic hesitation,
	I ...groped, my
halleluahs submerged
	in
reverent suds
		in
	detergent discovered
		on a mental counter.
	One last challenge,
		he blew again:
'I cannot do this, cannot cannot Kana...'
		...who tail-waggled in,
		knowing her wordless name,
	tootled in puddly notes lazing low
		around his feet.
	She lapped up sounds and
		loosed me,
			forgotten --
	I was no man again, and
		he won,
			no words
	against my slippery syllables.

-- Eric Kofoid & Kelly Sullivan

Oblique sun,
	end of day —
Sand on sidewalk
	casts perfect needles
	at my feet.

"You must have someone
	from then —
	a trusted aunt or uncle?
	a family friend?
Who might remember
	more clearly,
	more objectively
	what happened?"

No one, not one
	from then
	that I can trust,
	who knew me,
	who won't tell.

You decided not
	to dance,
Instead, toured this
	salty valley
Added your tears to
	our great lake —
Missed us while not
	wanting us —
Thought I missed
	the point,
And didn't know I
	was in the car
	with you.

Last week's flowers wilted,
	petals fell,
	water fouled,
	thrown away with
		scraps of food —

"One bud"
	and she added a fern leaf,
	crinkly wrapper,
	red bow
		and smile —

Warmly taken,
	coldly received,
Rose lies ignored on
	sunny table,
	expanding,
		spreading,
	trying to be seen.

Purple paper comes
	in scores of shades —

An inifinity of purples
	is no surprise —

But paper? ...who needs
	twenty five kinds of fuchsia folios?
I just need plain purple
	and can't find it!

Black-capped bandits
	in from Oregon,
Scattering last year's leaves,
Scaring the cat
	(white as snow lying about him),
Jumping, pausing, darting —
	chaos makers —

"Look, Aelric!",
	then gone,
	daddy's a liar —

What's in that mass
	of cherry limbs
that draws you back
	each year?

First day,
	last month —
White snow,
	black shadows —
Something moves,
	sun freezes my hand.

-- with apologies to Bryan Singer

The worst is remembered longest,
	this cumulative burden
	overwhelms in time —
Such as, my morning angers,
	swirling out of
	evaporating nightmares,
	diaphanous, beloved —
These fifteen minute irritations
	parade twenty four hours
	through your brain
Like typing "Guatemala".

He looked like a stiff wind
	might blow him away,

White hair on
	bent white body,
Wrapped in flannel
	and painful age —

"See that man, Daddy?" —
	Who is he?
"Max, Daddy! That's Max" —
	What does he do?
"I don't know —
	He belongs to the school" —

Suddenly, I fear
	the bricks might crumble
	if Max does not return.

Troll phoned after
	twenty five years
	and asked about the hat —

I happened to be staring right at it,
	recently discovered
	in my child's closet —

A nameless Mexican beaurocrat
	was moved by a tale of the hat
		as gift of a dying lover
		and lost on a train —

He took pity — in two weeks
	a beaten package arrived,
	hat intact —

A Mayan heart believed
	and a lover was realized —

My friend,
	sensing some universal urgency,
	knew it was time to resurect
		this dead young woman,
		never born —

Her love undending,
	shielded me from
	sun and rain.

Someday, Aelric
	will push A against E,
	tuning identity
		with historical precedence —

The good king's ancient stone
	pressing down his bones
	has his letters that way —

The story and sanctifying
	sound of "ligature"
	will spare him and his name —

Who argues with
	dead royalty and
	a long word?

Jeff can't tell me why
	he looked through me
	for three months,
	seeing only fog in thin air,

Fears my future, says
	he'll fly me out, or
	I'll force him back to
	Salt Lake City,

Teeters on the edge of
	brilliant insanity,

Sees light in the Will-o-the-Wisp
	creeping along the runway.

Big guy,
	papers and coffee,
	notebook, scribbles —

Little guy,
	cookie crumbs, chocolate,
	curled up under coat —

A week's wait,
	it's good
	and no need to talk about it.

I extend phone line
	across bench
Talking science to
	a liar —

Outside calm,
	inside chaos —

A flask, empty, falls;
	sudden sound,
	discordant bells —

No anger,
	just broken glass
	sparkling on floor.

Cat on legs while writing —
	minor distraction,
	major warmth —

Purring massage
	thrown in for free.

I prayed to Gita cat
	a simple request —

Speak into her ear
	as she sleeps,
Work a small miracle,
	just this —

Gita said, "Yes, of course" —

The required rituals,
	stroking, rubbing,
	tickling, warming,
I did them all —

"Patience", she purred,
	"Just wait" —

I did, and learned again,
	they lie, these cats,
When they say
	they're God.

Glass over pastry;
	scratches, hundreds,
	intersecting like frost --

Pies and goodies in
	soft focus,
	visual effect provided by
Anxious hands dragging
	hot cups for years
	towards craving bodies.

Tonight, my boy bathes
	for the first time alone —

"Daddy, get out, but
	you can leave
	the door open…"

Don't worry, I'm here —

"Daddy?"

Still here, Honey —

"I love you…
	I'm done…"

I'm not leaving,
	you're safe —

"I'll dry myself, but
	let me see you first…"

I'll be here a long time,
	until I'm imperfect again.

Today, you try to fool me —
	standing shakily,
	hobbling toward me
		with a smile,

Cataract eyes saying,
	"Much better now,
		really —
	younger feeling,
		like old times."

You scream in pain
	as I touch your side.

In we go,
	pills from my pocket
	into your mouth —

You drink deeply
	and for once I let you
	 eat anything you want —

You lie next to me
	pain replaced
	by tired euphoria —

Two hours of childhood dreams
	and you never knew
	when the needle touched your vein.

It was always simple —
	tip forward,
	feet rise from floor —

A sensation between
	tickled stomach and
	blushed face and
	levitate —

The trick was finding
	that feeling and
	letting it spread from
		chest to temples —

Once aloft,
	direction was effortless,
	speed erratic,
	and a view
		green and expansive —

My dream child flew alone,
	warm,
	safe,
	fearless —

I remember this well,
	with envy.

New dog,
	eight weeks into world,
	three days from mom —

Cocks head in question,
	consults cat,
	prefers my child —

Knows self
	with so little doubt.

Snow, gone
	warm Pacific front —
	rained all day,
	Seattle clouds in Utah.

"Cold", she says —

	"But, we walked without
	our coats", I say —

"Yes, but it's wet and gray,
	definitely not warm,
	cold enought, and
	I feel the way
		I ought to feel —
The way I would feel
	if it were thirty degrees colder."

Good friend,
    old black beast,
    lying in snow,
    rises with pain —

Tail waves "Hello!"
    and continues:
    "You're here at last —
    You'll never guess the battles —
        first, birds, then
        squirrels, then
        kids walking by —
    Repelled them all —
    It was work, let me tell you
        but things are safe now
        for you and her
        and the kid
            and the cat."

"Another day" thinks God,
    "You get another day —
    Just keep talking, friend."

For the privilege
    of sitting now and
    sleeping later,

I drink this cup
    of bitter stuff,
    foul from neglect --

Medicine not for
    mind or body,
But known to cure
    a social disease.

I notice her eyes,
    glistening, fixed,
Her smile, surrendering,
Her joy in listening --

I hear him say
"…spiritual growth…"
    in his white cable knit sweater,
    advertising on front --
"…Christ…"
    in his pressed French dungarees --
"…impact on our relationship…"
    in handsewn English boots --

I see tears in her eyes,
    and he goes in
    for the kill.

A good poem and
    a dollar twenty three
    will get you
A tall French roast and
    a sleepless night.

"Another chance" thinks one —

"A forgiving nature" thinks two,
    and then forgiveness
    becomes last chance —

It's probability and numbers —

Love, an equation.

Small pulsing complication —

I cannot see you,
But spend my life
    peering into
    your insides.

Cat claws my patient work —

I hiss —

But she works also,
    has her own shapes
    frozen within
    my unfeline forms.

Rush to bookstore concert —

Arrive on time,
    musicians forgot —

Two hours' reading,
    perfect performance.

My child moves paint
    about his palette
    with deliberation —

The same intent that guides
    his brush on
    color-dripping canvas.

Someday, I'll let the palette dry
    and hang it on the wall.

On a salty island
    of antelopes
We stumbled on
    a perfect bison,
    chewing cud —

While the child,
    whose memory could
    capture this forever,
Sleeps soundly on the back seat.

Cloud mountain —
    sometimes red like fire,
    sometimes Arctic white —
Is alway enveloped
    in deep blues and cotton.

"You won't get hurt there",
    I am assured by
    its inventor and discoverer —

It's like home on top,
    and heaven washes your soul.

White thatched brown bodies
	rolling down antelope sands —
Tumbling, scrambling,
	sticky hands linked in unaware love —
Saluted by a solemn line of pelicans,
	gliding approval of these shrieks of joy.