Trope

The rust on the beige cylinder
Of the power-line transformer

Matches the ochre-buff sandstone
Of the sheer cliff-face behind it.

You may be glad no one has scratched
Any messages on the cliff—

No pictographs, no epigraphs
Glorifying a long-dead king.

The patterns are just rock varnish,
Which is why the rust splotches match

Well enough to vanish. What has
Only random pattern to say

Remains a fine poem anyway.
The transformer metaphor stays.

New Tenant at Old Pump House

It does not matter if this word
Has been said a thousand, million
Times before. Most have. Print alone
Can hardly track its instances—

Imagine all its instances
Flitting tongued or fingered in air.
Is it the right word? It could be.
What do you want to do with it?

Translation might be difficult.
There are plenty of languages
Without equivalents for it.
Maybe you want to avoid it.

Make your own substitute. Good luck.
What meanings can you pump in it?

How to Leave

You misread. It was love,
Or maybe live. How to
Live or love. Not to leave.

How, then? Any of them.
Why do you need advice?
No need to discuss this.

You will live. You may love.
You will leave. You won’t fail.
You don’t need to be told.

You don’t need any poems
Or any self-help books,
Not even mom’s advice.

You’ll notice many stick
Around longer, too long.
But they’ll manage. They’ll go.

Since you’re here, you’ll manage.
You’ll live leaving loving,
However you misread.