"Three Hopeless Songs" I wrote these during a particularly difficult time in my life. The poems are from friend (and former neighbor) Pablo Medina -- I really like the sense of suspended melancholy that they seem to capture. Here are the texts to the poems: DEAD FISH ON THE SHORE WITH CLAMS -- for Liz Roszel It is winter, a yellow haze clings to the sides of boats. The fish are oozing rivers and the clams float out of perspective. Behind the bare branches of far trees there are houses, incoming clouds. The fisherman's wife is waiting for her husband to abandon hope. A POEM FOR THE EPIPHANY Ach, wie anders, wie schon Lebt der Himmel, lebt die Erde. -- Goethe for Ellen Jacko It snows because the door to heaven is open, because God is tired of working and the day needs to be left alone. It snows because there is a widow hiding under her mother's bed, because the birds are resting their throats and three wise men are offering gifts. Because the clouds are singing and trees have a right to exist, because the horses of the past are returning. They are gray and trot gently into the barn never touching the ground. It snows because the wind wants to be water, because water wants to be powder and powder wants to seduce the eye. Because once in his life the philosopher has to admit to the poverty of thought. Because the rich man cannot buy snow and the poor man has to wear it on his eyebrows. Because it makes the old dog think his life has just begun. He runs back and forth across the parking lot. He rolls in the snow. He laps it up. It snows because light and dark are making love in a field where old age has no meaning, where colors blur, silence covers sound, sleep covers sorrow, everything is death, everything is joy. APRIL: THE DAFFODIL What you know is what you know. What you love is not there. Your eyes shutting see only inside. Outside is a day full of light, occasional cars, occasional people. Intimacy is danger, danger is another breath. Don't deny that I have spoken, that pollen covers the sidewalk, that the trees are budding, that what you see is what you see is illusion. Silence is our partner. Death is a daffodil.