Teacher
Living as a poet is hard. See, the teacher is always changing, not just when September comes, but every moment […]
Heading Up
Do we all get where we’re headed? I’d like to believe I do. I’ve held a cold hand or two,
New Book Coming
It’s hard to believe only last year Bury My Under a Lilac was released, and I’m already ready to release
In Store
On course for spring, we run into frigidity, a storefront of lingering winter. See how we crash through the front
Monday Unhanded
This Monday morning, pear blossoms tumbling with the wind, white cloud grounded, blue sky clapping with one hand. Well done.
Passage
Never turn back, they say. But my back takes the stone barrage, bleeding faster than gossip, bruising like a damaged
Cubano
To write poetry, you must untrain your brain, forget the rigidities of relationships. Where is the mug of Cuban coffee
Monitor
All screens switch. Not momentarily – any milli-moment. Count them in fractions. One-one hundredth. Two. Dissolved into some vague animation
Sail
When in the throws of spring I remove my top in public, will you sail quickly, back towards conventional wind?
Now Untitled
For everyone missing their mother, I offer you a memory of mine: She hugged strangers, invited the lonely to dinner
NOVA Spring
Tonight, peepers pepper the air, thick with the sauce of spring, a dinner of biscuits and decaf coffee, reverse breakfast,
April Again
No more, those morning tears. I’ve absorbed them, adoring them, like salty gods, singing them, like the rime of an
Bring Your Kids to Work Day
What if on Bring Your Kids to Work Day I brought my books? What if I sat them next to
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Generally Speaking
It’s hard so hard to get specific. No one wants to wait while you try to recall words you really
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Pirate Life
Each March, I fall for it, the siren sun wading through blue to the abandoned crow’s nest over my house,
Un-sneak Attack
Fear doesn’t bother to sneak in. It lunges, with a screech, arms spread like wild wings, fingers grotesque talons of
Saving Daylight
We did not spring forward – we looked there, all the while wondering whether approaching snow would march us back
Still March
Past eleven. Were it morning, it might not matter, but night’s a story that should have ended an hour ago,
Conversation
The future, she said, relies on our stomachs, growling for something other than edible, something younger, something deferring the Earth,
Inbox
I got on a list, blown kisses by mega-marketers with a fetish for…construction? Aluminum piping, seamless gutters, steam rollers, ice
Submitting
I submitted because I saw ‘defenestration’ in a WWII detective novel, and had to look it up. The same day