She threw
nostalgia in—
along with your initials.

“Turn all
post-war, pre-washed, personal works
over for good, or
for as long as it takes
to forget

Another message
written in poor
handwriting, stuffed
in a glass
bottle to be tossed
into another body
of water—salt or fresh,
or in between.

Routes and Revivals

Nobody would mistake
a runner’s
log for poetry. No true

run could be
anything less. Or honest
obsession begin

any way other than head
first into the deep
end of risk

and nostalgia. I am
nobody waiting
to meet you

again. Then again
who am I

to be so mistaken

by fresh water
over warped notes?

Take No Heroes Hotel

Everyone has reservations.
A porch no one
can describe wraps
around its house—tightening,
tightening. Hugs

the footprint as a disciple
of home is
where you check in
without a check-out time. Tin
tile ceilings in the two-story

lobby. A triangle
park and a bluff
anchor all activity
in the oceanfront garden. Bonfire
night after night where effigies

of the over-worshipped burn.
What washes ashore below

erases questions and desire
for answers. I could drag
my dinghy across the sand
and know it’s time.


Reading done with mirrors
is a backwards art
I fear

learning. When self-reflection
becomes an obsession, it’s time
to stop

paying the electric bill. Time
to flip
all letters hanging in suspension.

Eve of Dropping

How much time
she can cram
onto a single sheet
of paper (without foldouts)
will not exceed
the days it takes
for her to erase
another ill-suited lover
from her imaginary dance
card. And the wiliest
of the ill has a sister
whose voice will soothe
during those marginal nights.

Eleven Cubed

Whoever erased
all thoughts of him
from my head while I

slept last night
will become the new
mystery I expand

into an obsession
before snow falls
on another civil

twilight. Could be spitting
out toothpicks
for all I care.

Glass Plan

To run a marathon, write
a book, publish
a poem, make
love to a woman, join
a commune, find
a home, see the world,

to call it a day
is to spin my own

epitaph on a 3 x 5
note card, index
my breath, become obsessed
with chasing my own
past, is to take
a long ride on a train.