and when his warm skin
presses against her back
he places his hand on her
bare hip and falls back
into untroubled sleep
(November 2012)
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About You
by
I have created you hereor rather an image of youI interact without you hereI write these poems to youor to the one of you who hearsall that is here for you to hearas well as for you who do notproblematic for me and for youdue to the singular ambiguity of youyour response or lack begs a questionwho are you and for whom do I writeyou are the confidant of confessionsyou are the echo in the waking darkyou are the secret lover to my desires(November 2012) -
Simpler Said
by
“there are two kinds of love being made (as reader, you also are being wooed). Each one fits within the other.”—Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet.I speakdirectlyto younot hiddenbehind a heor shebutsolely myI to youfeelmy whisperat your eardon’tdistractedlybrush me awaylike a loose strandof your hairturn insteadtowards mein a kissmouthyour wordsback to minelike loversin a tangleddarkfoldyour mindto mineuntilwhat we sayholdswhat we knowas onehand holdsanother(November 2012) -
Tense
by
he breathesin long silent whistlesas if he were givingbirth to himselfhis muscles clinchhis bones in fearas he waits for the skyto finish fallinghis world becomes a seaand like a catfishhe gulps air in gaspsthirsty for an end(November 2012) -
Be Unbroken
and another poem starts with andas if whatever conversation happenednever came to a complete stop but insteadside-stepped slightly to avoid an onrushingbull or to not slip on an unpleasant eventhidden deeply in the minutia of the dayeach detail fitting perfectly togetherafter the fact as if all along intentionalyes from the start A equated C equatedB but never so tangential as all thatto cause a complete collapse of our cityuntil what remained was the final andbecause then again it bends back aroundto almost but almost catch his tail again(November 2012) -
Your Hand
by
to Lisain the vague shadows of the twisted nightI wake again into my clotted fearyou lay your hand upon my arm untilthe convolutions of my troubled thoughtspiral back around toward an anxious calmlike the last dry leaf from November’s elm(November 2012) -
derived equivalence
by
“They are not listening to their own conversation.”–Zadie Smith, NWone plus one equals oneshe said listen to my wordsI hint at more than I sayand only say what can be saidher laughter awoke delightin ways he dreamed he could handlehe fancied he had her backhis hero to her damselhe would take her wordsand write poems of herhoping she could hearthe echoes of her musingstheir words flowed like flocksof birds leaving for the wintereach heard only what they heardand never told the other(Novemer 2012) -
The Woodshop
apologies to Emilymy life stands a broken guntossed beneath the staira constant reminderof all that is not heredust seeps through the airas if I had hidthe carved edgesof my coffin’s lidamong the sawduston the floorthrive parts of othersI’ve known before(November 2012) -
The Floating World
“who looks outside, dreams;who looks inside, awakes.”-Carl Junghe wakes into his dreamthen walks to the windowoutside fog wraps the treeslike old women in shawlsas he returns to his roomhe wonders where she might bewhose hand does she reach foron these days he feels so aloneit is the longing for desirenot a simple closurebut the ache of wantthe lunar pull into the darknot forward nor back buttoward the hidden in himself(November 2012) -
Pop Song Dream
by
“Dream no small dreamsfor they have no powerto move the hearts of men.”_Goethewith you in handI sing to youof secret dreamsI wish for youthese covert dreamsI share with youto hold your handand sing with youI go to sleepand dream of youmy heart awakesto thoughts of youeach day I wakeand long for youto step from sleepwhen I call for you(October 2012) -
Drowning Day By Day
Fear rises through my fleshlike birds lifting from a field.The air trembles above me now;kaleidoscopic visions rippleand pulse across the lake’s face:bubbled words ending in my scream.(October 2012) -
Breaking the Code
by
I can hear the whispersbetween your talking.Doug KilmisterThe book cracks open;pages, thin like the Bible’s,rustle at my finger tips.Letters whisper secretslike stories passedbetween mothers and daughters.The slurred sound clusterscoalesce onto layers of myth.Separate patterns laidover patterns like lace.My finger marks the wordas eyes close to think:candles flicker shadows;the past presents the future.I return, shoulderbent, into the book.(Summer 1990) -
Redemption
by
caught in a clatter of thoughtsI walk into the open courtyardat work already worrying my daya chorus of English starlings leaplimb to limb filling a red budwith their chattering songsas I step from the edgeof the courtyard the birds fallsilent into beatific unisonI stop and stand still with the birdswho flutter like frightened leaveseach of us seeking our own refuge(October 2012)
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