No as in no?

Or no as in maybe?
Or no as in yes, but can't say?

Or is it no as in thank you?
Maybe no as in sorry?
Perhaps no as in please, please don't ask.

No: I don't feel it.
No: You're too fat.
No: Just please leave me alone.

No, you're too old now.
No, you're not needed.
No, but I'll call you some time.

You can't take this path now.
You got here too late.

You've misread the whole situation.

Don't know if you know now,
Nor knew this new notion,
But no, no, just no, no just no...

Seaward

The captain went seaward

and ain't coming back.

The captain went seaward;

his lover mourned.

The captain went seaward;

his ship was sacked.

The captain when seaward;

he ain't no more.

slowly

the concussions thump vaguely,
dimly spread through the icy flow.
one after another. there… and again.
there is no wind to speak of.
no current dragging limbs seaward.
only gravity: insistent, pressing.
the sounds grow distant,
the souls vacant,
and the glacier…
it trundles on
wayward
alone
lost.

captivating

In that place, in the sky to the left and the right,
above the beauty spilling across the void of space
are found words, written or etched or carved or
more forcibly impressed on the fabric of life and
existence, captivating in their simplicity and wisdom
and yet never quite read, never quite known to their
fullest extent of truth and liberating knowledge,
existing only to entice us further, torment us with
the promise never quite given, though always
and eagerly begged on, a wanting deep driven
in the heart of every man and women, at the core
of each love and each fear, daunting and unsatisfied
for the phrase begs, too, for finality, to know itself.

My life is strewn in a light-filled pond,
and I'm swimming to catch the pieces

Like soft glass it slips round
my fingers,
glistens beauty

Remembering now, as I do, about waterfalls,
the reason they're captivating

Is the way that the light plays on breasts
as we stand beneath them

Slipping into someplace where the skin
catches droplets and collects them on lips

There are Those

Murdered in the forest eves,
their bodies strewn about
the underbrush thick with nettles.

Snow falls lightly on the graveless,
graven gray surcoats in tatters.

Souls sublimate in the moonlight.

Thus are we--unmarked.

Winter

One round white face, two/three
Days, ninety. Three months
since summer murdered those
cold tendrils. And now for nine,
resurrected again, she'll ache
down drizzle, ever, ever, ever