Leaf Fall



Somewhere, not here

A field lies open,

Unframed, without

Mind, as if lost,

Waiting on ritual.


In Increments,

I have changed.

Each day dawns

Into itself;

There is no other.


Hear, and here

As well, I

Still seek

Her across

These echoes:


She followed

A fragile winter

Ice across a lake.

I am cold; the wood

Grown dark.


(October 30, 2018)

persona non grata



“She is a forgery.”

–Anne Carson


she fears

she will be



so much


then she appears,


she revises

her lines,




she vanishes.


(October 23, 2018)

Waiting on the Muse



“I live by impulse, by emotion, by white heat”

–Anais Nin, “Henry and June, A Tunnel of Love


impulse would not wait

to feel the white intensity;

with no emotion to attach,

she’d coldly leap away,

unfinished, unresolved.

no tidy ends in escape,

just bloodied stumps

where our hands were

torn away through neglect,

and unrequited regret.


(August 19, 2018)

Claws Mark the Doors



Once I wrote to flee,

now I simply erase;

still, they intrude,

like cats crying

for fish at my feet.

They will not go away:

avarice, decay, lies—

all ubiquitous as air.


Explanation’s weight

allows no time to think,

nor decipher machinations.

The charms of language

no longer protect me from

fangs slavering in the street.


(August 12, 2018)

The Weight of Regret


to lost friends


The weight of silence

is not the same

as the weight

of absence;

anymore than the weight

of disappearance

can be the same as

the weight of being left.


The weight of forgetting

is much lighter

than the weight

of the forgotten—

for it does not carry the weight

of all that can be remembered.


(July 25, 2018)

Rothko Chapel: a meditation



like stepping into a still pool

deep in a primal cave—

you slip into this silence:


the light breathes, a liquid

luminescence, in slow

arrhythmic breaths,


and you are changed—

you see what you want

to see; desire, fear, hope


flicker across the surface

like faces of the dead,

hesitant and fleeting


until you see only your self

stripped of all significance


(July 2, 2018)

Peter Pan



I have no shadow,

it faded like cloth

in the sun.

Light passes through me,

no wall marked

with my absence

to imply a presence

now lost in light.

I sweep my footprints

from the trail

like gardener monks,

leaving all behind.

Not knowing how to fly,

I walk close to the ground

between pulsing shadows;

condemned to watch

the butterflies flit

above the flowers

blooming in the sun.


(May 9, 2018)

Dream Journal #33: Projections



She infused your words with hers

as you did not say what she intended.

The words in the letter in the dream

swirled and slipped across the page.

You began to read like a film voiceover,

then her voice became stronger erasing

your words as she spoke your confession.

You knew she knew you knew she wrote

to you she thought; but was unsure

the letter, your letter, her words said

as much. If only she did not know

the letter, as her desire, was a dream;

and no amount of bland exposition

could explain away her obsessions.


(May 2, 2018)

My Life a Broken Gun



“without—the power to die”

–Emily Dickinson


An ephemera scattered

like thoughts in dreams;

I am no longer subject.

I am object,

acted upon— chaff

allowed to fall,


indistinguishable from dust.


Yet, I must respond,

must go on.

Despite dysfunction,

despite predicate’s lack,

I stand here

to mark an empty space.

This Time This Telling



My story distorts

the line. The quick

break bends the more

reasoned with its

slow plodding grace,

until it too

puddles like ice.


Then uncertain

steps, upon the

open window’s

edge, slip to air,

and the long fall

feels like freedom.


(April 13, 2018)