Michael Miller
July 2019

Michael Miller is a former entertainment journalist for the Los Angeles Times and the author of Thief After Dark (FarStarFire Press, 2002), College Town (Tebot Bach, 2010), The First Thing Mastered (Tebot Bach, 2013) and Angels in Seven (Moon Tide Press, 2016). A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he won a 2014 Orange County Press Club award for his story on poets Lee Mallory and Charles Bukowski. He earned a BA in English from UC Irvine and an MA in creative writing from the University of East Anglia. He currently lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Rachanee Srisavasdi, and their daughter, Clare.


Before the planes turned to ram the Twin Towers,

they hummed in a straight line just like this —

an achievement always to stay calm facing forward

and most remarkable when wings and circuits

keep us suspended over a space too vast

to be even called a drop. The sky that radiates blue

from below turns to nothing when looked at

from above, but here on board, we cling

to the somethings we have: water closer to us

in the plastic bottles than in the particles

of clouds, American Hustleon the in-flight movie

catching more stares than the mountaintops

that will never bounce light just this way again.

The story goes that even the astronauts

played Hank Williams on Apollo 13

until the batteries died, and perhaps in the face

of the possible fireball, all we know is the language

we packed from home. Given one more minute,

how many of us would opt for last words,

some grand phrase to resolve up high

what was left unfinished miles below?

The fullest circle would be to go in silence,

to let sky outlive the word for sky 

and thrill one last time to what light and color gave —

the outpost of ground and expansion of blue

and the promise that thoughts could help us climb.



Another holidays over and we’ve asked for less

than we’ve given away, the alarm’s cold chime

waking us to our trusted inventory

of walls, ceiling, slotted sunlight.


To meet the new year, we drive to the streets

where our salaries would never buy a home

and slide six quarters — the year’s first price —

into the meter a block from the beach.


Lace fingers, again, and let’s enjoy 

what is never given to us for keeps:

heaven, the absolute, whatever we name it

mirrored on the surface between wakes and buoys,


the robin’s-egg sky that almost dissolves

past the water’s edge on bleary days

now bold and separate, presiding master-like 

over its more breakable half.


We are one day — always a day, not a year —

closer to broken, our bodies counting

toward an end whose only secret is time and place.

If we are lucky, someday, we will plan our letting go,


but this year is marked for holding what we can.

On the concrete steps, you choose the best angle,

touch your head to mine, click the iPhone camera.

With quarters, we will adore this sky later.

The responsibilities, stored at home, will wait.

How hard do we work to play at pausing time?

We thrive on boundaries pushed just enough,

our bliss bought with coins set aside.

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