Diamond Light Inside Union Chapel

Avenue is
no longer mine to claim.
I must return the rope bracelet

It was
never yours. Not
an islander. A girl
without a street, without a pail
to swing.

Let’s talk
about the square
that dreams of becoming
an octagon you can trust to
stop soon.

No one
knows what happened
to the thick plastic horse
that used to guard the entrance to
your tent.

I swear
I didn’t steal
your Pegasus. Would not
drown it in a bucket of salt

even sadder
octopus trapped inside.
I do not know how to be your

me to the best
swimming hole down island
where feathers float on the surface
in pairs.

Let them
all go free. It’s
too late. The beach ball in
your hands deflated before you
were born.


I used to be so imperfect
I would forget why
it matters.

You used to be so perfect
you could forget to define
what matters.

We used to be so
much matter behind
the forgotten cellar door.

Risers and treads once combined
to create crazy angles
and a steep decline

into these private subterranean cells
nowhere near the place
we used to call home.

Imperfect Cinquain Morning

Five is
not the number
we were both counting on
to guide the sun’s reflection through
the blinds.

Safe prime,
a pent-up starfish waves
the most destructive hurricane

All wounds
trip the senses
except the side one,
which tends to put us violently
to sleep.

earth, air, fire.
Don’t forget the ether,
or wood, earth, water, fire, then

I will
remember Speed
Racer’s Mach Five going,
going, going forever, gone

Risk It Triptych

A knife
on the counter
tempts me to reach for it,
to stab my own fear in the gut
by choice.

Let’s pitch
tents with toothpicks
and Silly Putty and
string from old kites we never got
to use.

What if
I were to spend
a year on the island
to speak to ghosts of beach rose hips

How ‘bout a Coin

How I
wanted to be
a coin diver calling
to steamship ferry passengers

Oak Bluffs
on a hot day
in July, the sixties
were winding down, filled with rusted

But my
mother said no.
I learned to hold my breath
for ages underwater in

My ears
couldn’t handle
the pressure. Jellyfish
stings. Heads nor tails, not my story
to tell.

Reflections of an Unprepared Hippie Poet (or, Dancing Barefoot Along the Legal Lethal Divide)

no shoes, no shirt,
no service. Remember
no trees, no lungs, no pen, no mask,
no life.

American Pyro: F’n Fireworks

Hiss. Bang. Flash. Toxic
residue especially from the color
green. Don’t blame the dogs
for running away.

Another night
of thunder and lightning
without rain.
Where’s my thundershirt?

Cherry bombs in the alley.
M-80s down the subway stairs.
What are we celebrating?
Freedom. Boredom. Gunpowder. Really?

The sky needs no adornment.
The earth, no more wounds.