Tent
Sometimes in the morning,
before opening my eyes,
I dream of our tent,
that tiny green dome.
From behind its walls
thin as skin, I hear birds,
leaves, a brush...
I want to write about nipples even though
no word is safe I write about nipples
because they make me uncomfortable
and the things I cannot touch
with...
Tossing away sandwiches,
chewing gum, cigarettes,
he made his heaven from wrappers,
commerce’s carapace. Who would discard
the meat of the thing: shake out
the book and bow to
the...
Tossing away sandwiches,
chewing gum, cigarettes,
he made his heaven from wrappers,
commerce’s carapace. Who would discard
the meat of the thing: shake out
the book and bow to
the...
Only whiskey burns the sorrow as she grieves.
Purple velvet once surrounded golden dreams.
Both a season and a reason left on leave.
Now a memory left...
L’Auteur Fatslug
Fatslug wonders how people dreamed or daydreamed
before the movies infiltrated their thoughts.
He himself has become his own Steven Spielberg—
or, depending on his...
In the photo of the kitchen fire,
We are dressed for Christmas:
Me in a flammable hand-me-down jacket,
Her in her costume jewelry
And her Edward Scissorhands t-shirt.
The...
My father, tangled in the height of adolescence,
wept outside Old Saint Paul’s Church as spring died,
reading Desiderata. The poem lay inscribed
in rock at the...
Through the harsh whistle of a
bullying Blue Jay from the feeder,
the Common Yellowthroat’s
wichity-wichity-wichity,
we find our own through bill and tap
and rhythmic drumming on drainpipe,
bone...
The Reflection Terrace at Brookside Gardens
I am still water
I take on the color of thehedge-pine greens thegeese-moss browns thetortoise-rock grays theazalea-breeze pinks thebride-haze whites...
POULTICEWhen you have looked elsewherefor answers—the spider’s web,the empty hive, the rotted log,beneath the unturned stone—ask yourself what you haveneglected. Do not lamentthat what...
