Another Sad Love Poem

this letter will be ignored

as so many others

or perhaps worse


as if

some other

were the subject

instead of you

(February 9, 2021)

iteration’s torment

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (80)

so he thought if

as if she said

what he heard

he thought she

said more

he wanted her

to say more

yet her metaphor

slanted in then

out like a kite

testing the wind

with her string

(July 22, 2020)


Why shouldn’t I?

A wren perched next to a cardinal

like a drunkard on a stool

looking for a bit of trouble:

Am I such an easy fool

to think this wind is for me?

A yes, and a yes, waited unsaid.

(July 21, 2020)

Dream Journal 37: He Woke to a Memory Which Only Happened in Metaphor

As they walked, she spoke and collected items she saw along the trail. A kind of reverse Hansel and Gretel: instead of finding her way back by dropping bread crumbs, she wanted to become lost, and collected markers which would have shown their way home.  Finally, she asked if he would read a draft of something she wrote. He disliked reading friend’s work (it was all too intimate: entering another’s mind), but he said for her he would. He lay down on the soft grass, entranced by her voice. She told a story as she placed the objects she had found (an acorn, a feather, a stone, a dead butterfly, a ribbon) in a shallow hole next to where he lay. After a while, he sat up and glanced at the objects in the hole. He said, it’s like a witch’s ingle. She laughed gently, and began to loosely tie his hands with the ribbon as she finished her story. He watched her dark eyes focus on the task, becoming lost in their intensity. When she was done, she said to him, now you’re supposed to untie yourself, and become free. He said, one would first have to want to be free. With nothing more to say, she walked away leaving him in the woods.

(April 1, 2020)


I read without words

the nuance in a gesture;

her fingers touched mine.

(October 7, 2019)


four haiku with a tanka couplet

her nightgown slips

past her hips

as she steps toward him


her skin cool

beneath the sheets

simmers at his touch


a fan rattles

over tangled sheets;

cicada pulse the heat outside.


she wakes before dawn,

and slips from bed,

leaving him alone


like rain in drought, we

desire what remains

(July 8, 2019)


a turn toward the other

whether in body or spirit

a turn toward some other

than myself to complete myself

a turn toward the other

like the horizon turns east

always seeking after light

a newer day to exult in

the earth’s curve the curve

of your breast silhouetted

in dawn’s light slipping

through our bedroom window

I turn to you from the dark

seeking your warmth in turn

(April 15, 2019)


from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress

He shuffle steps his dance

to the left; she circle slips

through their spaces

around her. They move

against the other, dancing

with one dance.

(March 27, 2019)

Dawn’s Light

abstract backdrop of twisting smoke

Slowly stirring

the cold ash,

he sifted her words

from a memory

which had drifted 

softly into air, 

like smoke.


she danced

away in silence.

His words slurred

into darkness:

his story was

not her story.

(February 28, 2019)


“but I was only bruised”

—Denise Levertov

I thought you were a butterfly,

But I was just a construct.

I thought I was an open wound,

But you were not a surgeon.

I thought you were my subtext,

But I was just a shallow novel.

I thought I had healed,

But still I wrote this poem.

(November 27, 2018)