Monthly Archives: May 2010
Written on the Skin
Total exposure before a second full moon passes over the sky to our right is my wrong impulse—the one I don’t have the courage to plunge into darkness. I still can’t explain why a morning ghost moon makes me want … Continue reading
Filed under Overnight Poems
Trying to Get Lost in Kenwood
At the corner of Thomas and Upton—a crossing that wasn’t supposed to happen—she walks under the right canopy of trees. A layer of fear shed, it leaves no mark on the sidewalk. Some spills are meant to remain invisible to … Continue reading
Filed under Afternoon Poems
Loring Park Daily
A commotion of geese flaps across this paved way to go in circles through my front yard I share with anyone willing to show up. My struggle to take off is my refusal to drop the weight of every moment … Continue reading
Filed under Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
Rhymes with Guile
To be remembered for this. She’ll accept the evaporation of all other details in buckling concrete. Tree roots need somewhere to go. The downturn confused with a bow arched toward rooftop wild flowers—it’s taken a lifetime to learn to let … Continue reading
Filed under Overnight Poems
From the Ground Up (Day 2,744)
Balcony scars on the side of a house haunt us—another Verona, another serenade, another exit into perfect darkness. A guitar pick moon offers us the night. We take it string by wave by bits of breath easing close.
Filed under Day Poems, Night Poems
Another Pronunciation
Saudade isn’t saudade if it is satisfied. When she least expects it, other dreams come into focus under the lights. Dust of desire becomes frenzied particles she won’t try to collect. She’s reaching over the fence with its crumbling limestone … Continue reading
Filed under Overnight Poems
Obvious
Inspiration in the spit laden air, in the sequence of events from lake to balcony to converted house to nailing down these recalcitrant emotions with a red hammer (yes, it must be red). I’m no butterfly catcher, am afraid to … Continue reading
Filed under Overnight Poems
And They Called It Ash
A writer loves trees. This is the irony—how we all come to love our victims in the end.
Filed under Overnight Poems
