8 May, 2017

Street-lights blink and blink
while everyone’s asleep.
A blade of grass could
cut the silence of the night.

(turn, world, turn)

Do I know you, Road?
Maybe birds have carried off
the seeds, or weeds have
choked them: nothing grows.

(turn, world, turn)

I’ll shed my skin, or squeeze
the honey from my heart
or wring my crystal hands to play
a tune along some gentle cup

(turn, world, turn)

I don’t mind the cold
but a constant 98.6
is burning and I’m
left in this field all alone

(turn, world, turn)



20 April, 2017

A dust collects on the horizon
as on an open window.
The pane keeps out the wind
who would blow

who would scatter
who would keep from dreams
the hypnogogic lubricant.
They’re squeaking now.


My Heart Would Stop

16 April, 2017


My heart would stop, were
it not, slow, moving
on a stream of many-color’d grief.

Let the wind take it, or
someone else, perhaps –
it will take us all the same,

come back as prayers to
those, exhausted, praying:
we can only hope to be so much.


I forget so many things, wasted
on breath better spent
in silence, where all those names

divorce themselves from things
and I from tender nearness.
Nameless: the geography of atrophy.

Now, stopped:
My contoured heart is weeping.

Old So(u)l

14 April, 2017

The sun’s got his golden beard
stuck in my blinds again.

I never knew my grandfather, but
if every beard’s this warm
then I can just pretend.

I’ll bet you were
a fisherman.
The way you sparkle in the dew
I’ll be you were
a handsom man.

Maybe you showered laughter
on the meadows
and dried them with your smile
helped them grow.

Don’t cry mama ’cause he’s gone
don’t cry because I’m wrong
cry because
not every beard’s as warm as this
nor ever fisherman
a handsome man

Cry because he’s just a father
cry, because He forsook
His Son.
Cry now, mama, ’cause
it hits us like a wave
of pain, this sound:

and like a father, I’ll bet
he let you down.


12 April, 2017


Lingering upon a silver veil
of flimsy constellations
a universe, beside
me, glistens:

galaxies of broken glass.
And myself,
who is ribbons,
grows forever distant.


The stars are bars.
My soul’s corners

on a great sewing machine.
Infinity confines infinitely.

I can’t sleep

9 April, 2017


The sun, swarmingly,
crescendo boils.

Tremor me not, but
sit beside me, bluely.
Or with purple,

wrapped ’round neck
like cool rags.
Hope, in day, smolders,

overcome: ashes and wax.


Disappear silently into the dark,
my dreams, my thoughts,
for I forgot
to cage you ‘neath
crystal balls and
feather’d words
to lightly call you back
from dreaming, where you fell

death-tired, only wanting
rest – how, violetly,
exhalling flowers, you perfume
a hallway with some
vacant color: magnify
reality’s rigidity. And I
can only hope to drift
into some sugar’d sleep.


Woman heaved
momentously –

And all the world sat
on her heart
as it does mine.

Sing farewell
as I plunge into
a different sleep.


2 April, 2017

Yesterday was my birthday. One of life’s many jokes. I remember ten years ago today I wrote a poem to myself, I suppose for myself. I’ll salvage that wreckage someday.

Until then, a progression of suites.


A spiderweb is strung
Across the sky;
Catches the sun
And traps it in a bed of gold

A cotton field, fallen child,
Wonders why
It wasn’t allowed to be a cloud

Instead of the sun, white Icarus,
You can only clothe
The ground


A sky-painted
Knits wind to
The earth

Your eyes
Have shaped
The world

All around us,
Lost promise babies

Your hands
Have woken
My heart


Columns hold up a balcony
Of plum-skins and

Caterpillars chew on day
Will you leave me with
This night?

(Street-lamps and windows, longing
For your light)


31 March, 2017

Warmth is what night brings
for once, and you feel it
as your bones welcome the spring

She kept her love from you, you know
and don’t ask where she hid it
as long as the grass grows

like your chest, breathing deep
what felt so easy to forget
Winter makes you want to sleep

and leaves you feeling like your heart
is what dreaming left behind
Don’t ask where you should start

to stitch up the pieces she left you
in her haste — and blind
you wonder: what else can you do

when she abandons you so soon
when you find
you want to sing but you don’t know the tune

because that was winter and your heart
was what dreaming saw unfit
to hold before she departs

And now this tattered night brings
warmth — you can’t resent it
for your bones gladly welcome the spring


30 March, 2017

The sun
That fat slob
Bumped a stained-
Glass window
And it shattered
On the hills


29 March, 2017

I smile as you sit across from me,
and you smile. You’re sipping on your tea
while I drink from chasms fierce things, flying
from the hands of children who’ll never reach,
who’ll never touch, who’ll never grasp that crying
in fevered want is what mothers can never teach.

I tend a garden of the greenest silence,
and you smile. Sweet thing, your voice is violence!
Cruelty nurtures the seeds which blossom, sprouting
from the eyes of starving men, from all the beds
in the infirmaries, from joy all choked in doubting.
Yes, wanting is the fever in pounding heads,

in boiling blood and white-hot words. In everything.
And you smile. You’re putting sugar in your tea
while I drink from quiet what the aching brings
but you are only sipping on your tea.