From the street,
she sees a hammock affixed
to some bare
elms in a city

park. A how to live
in urban green before
it greens. Bad
poetry never makes good

architecture. Good
architecture makes good

poetry if
the intentional flaw

doesn’t compromise
the structure. She wonders
how tight
those knots are tied.

Ice in Formation

It could be a horse’s white
mane that hangs

over an outdoor
sconce. Week after

week, it doesn’t melt. Is it
permanent? She hears

a recording of her own
voice and wonders who

might want to curl up
inside it till it thaws.


In bars, on street corners, along
green hill campuses, in dark
corners beneath
office towers, on trains, beside
zoos, buried deep
below backyards, above a murder
of crows, in the palm
of her hand.

Before Outdoor Music and Movie Night

Gray explosions
on white on
a shower

curtain say more
than a rainbow
garden of stripes

or petals or
letters of an alphabet
gone mad. And

the red

towel hanging
over the bar

becomes the doorway
to fabric tunes

in motion. Splat
ball in a claw

foot tub might sound
like this.

August 1st

And the old floating
bridge moans
as the cattails
whistle and she nods

to the fish
in the pond below. And
urban nature’s
reach rescues

her once again
from herself.

Green Window

Her urban jungle is ivy
growing over
the southeast
window and an orange
cat looking
out. Birds, squirrels,
gnats, pedestrian souls.

Thunder in Kettles

And then finally the rain
comes to crash night into its lover
lighting to pronounce a distant crack
of ecstasy. I won’t go

to the window. I know. Tomorrow
morning the world
will smell of lilacs and the memory
of wet concrete

and bark. And into it
I will walk around a corner
ready to give desire
another chance.

Thinking About Red Birds Again

The flight across pre-spring
parkland on a hot March
morning, or the sinking

to the bottom
of the Atlantic. Pinging
back and forth between

ocean and river, bicycle
wheel and open
window won’t revive

verbs that prefer
to remain dead.