Another Version of Three Loves

I steal. It’s my nature. No license.
So I will count three loves
although there have been

so many more.

Lover #1 had no licenses. Didn’t need
one to play guitar. He jumped
off a stage to kiss me. But there were

so many more.

Lover #2 was made of glass
and tall and straight
and bottomless, which was
the little problem that became
my big problem along with

so many more.

Lover #3 is a secret
especially to me. I’m told
to pray and he will come. But
I only half believe. I worship
the moon, and she has no time
for such nonsense.

So no more.

Lead Sinker Brain Brats

To float is not
always the goal.
Some air bubbles
burst for no reason.
On those nights, I let go
of my need to follow the moon.


I still live
in a coin operated
world. These social networking
tricks do not align

with how I shrink
from true human
contact when the moon begins
to count. If he kept the letters

I wrote, where would they be
now? Hearts bought

at estate sales
are non-refundable.

Evening Skin

“Onstage the Scottish musicians begin to break the skin of the evening and the music fills the room—mandolin, guitar, fiddle.”
—Colum McCann, from Zoli

It doesn’t matter if it’s shattered
diamonds or glass she sees winking
in fresh snow to carry her home
after dark. This splinter

pain touches her left foot
where the big toe attaches itself
to the sole. Nothing there
but a nagging to remind her

she is no exception. Mortal—
with a limited number of steps, breaths—
she’ll strive to keep them
in unison as long as a splinter
moon allows.

Nine Eighteen

Don’t draw a line through
this day yet—late
afternoon and still sleeves
are optional, blinding light
from the sun’s reflection
on a fender, her footsteps
reflect nothing but promise
of a moon sighting tonight.


Suddenly evening crowds
the street—a quickened
into darkness cooling
and smiling upward—there
moon, there moon.

Auratic Splice

Found footage, a blue filter
to distinguish night
from its counterpoint.
That these black-and-
white flicker cycles
could be finite, she’s beginning 

to see how
the distinction will snap
away, all filters exposed
without purpose, no farewell
or final letter to the moon
and everything it contains. A private explosion 

without a witness, her evening
will come.