POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
Welcome To The House of Static

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

Pit Stop in Kansas

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

Getting Postcards From a Piano Showroom

The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…

I could, even now, go down to the water

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

Me and Other Bodily Accessories

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

painting of apple and grapes
Feast Of

anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple

Going Broke

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

Unerased | Steep Steps

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”

The State School 1984 His Given Name Was Wilbur  We Called Him Magpie

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

Hollywood Hills
the remarkable thing

I am still waiting for the lion

Landscape with Ash

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

Making Israeli Salad

Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

oh Manifesto

The collective
failure
of ethical standards

Clotheslines

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

Observer of the Patient

Her brown eyes,
how a fig
considers itself.

[Zoetrope with Particulates in it and a Newborn]

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

Time Travel

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

Sadness is a Sin

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

On the Night Row-Houses Across the Street Catch Fire

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.