And So The Water Flows
And So The Water Flows finds itself in urban and rural settings from across the world. It wrestles with themes of change, the pull between what was and what is, our longings, losses and doubts, and the relationship of the man-made to the natural world.
The Grolier Poetry Book Shop in Harvard Square, Cambridge, Massachusetts. The Grolier is the oldest poetry book shop in America and will celebrate its 100th birthday in 2027.
The Paper Dragon Store in Boston’s South End offering Stationery, Gifts, Letterpress, Art, Books and more.
Pruning Season
That time of year, that time of life
when what had seemed so full of vigor dies,
falls to the ground, browns,
returns to the earth,
uncertain steps towards rebirth.
What happens when a life no longer grows
and only feels the ties that hold it to a wall?
How far to prune it back, what to take away,
what to leave? A plant sheds its leaves
to weather out the cold.
I’ve heard a gardener prunes a limb
that rubs against another limb,
removes a branch that crosses another’s path.
I take my blade, cut again
and hope that come the spring
I haven’t gone too far.
Brussels, on Business
Steps take me
to the Madeleine,
its stiff, brick facade,
its canopy of stone-faced
saints chiseled above
the portal doors,
as closed to the hopes of men
as to the words of prayer.
The clashing bells
reminding me it is two o’clock.
The wintered linden trees
close-cropped,
like the limbs
of a sleepless man tied
to the rope of time
as thick as the Brussels fog.
How many times
have I retraced these steps?
Although, there is no trace
of me on these slippery
cobblestones
just the shadows of a man.
The strains of the street
lamps showing
it is downhill from here.
Across the flanks
of the Grand Palais,
the bells of this vacant
marketplace announce
it is now three o’clock.
I pray for a thunderous
hour of sleep
before the dawn
of the ill-faced day,
the air still
wrapped in fog.
Crossing
A parting handshake
from man to man
that lasts longer
than the usual
moment or two.
A message pressed
into the membranes
of my skin,
leveled into the memory
of my muscles,
driven in
by his unrelenting grip,
executed under
this cloak of civility
as clear as a shot at dawn.
I look into his eyes,
into a labyrinth of rooms,
one couched inside another
like a Russian doll,
where what is what
and who is who
is as fixed
as the next man
nailed to the cross.