Poetry

Set Up for Reverie

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A hinge creaks, the trap
door swings opens. She passes 

through. It’s these details.
They weigh on her. She’s not
catatonic—she just can’t complete her day 

dream. She needs to fill in
all the blanks.  Where? What
begins in a coffee bar on Hennepin moves 

to a Linden Hills basement
to a truck parked
on the street to a pedestrian 

bridge over the river. When?
Civil twilight to midnight 

with a full moon. What? 

An encounter transforms
into a planned meeting
into a passionate charge 

down to experience the unforgettable. Why?
Because it’s finally time.
Who? You 

would like to know. If
she could just get to the kiss,
she might reveal the shadow 

hands pressing against
her hips. Until then,
you can hover overhead.

Into the Lens

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A waking smirk paints her face
young. Her daydreams
have become pages
from old journals ripped 

out, restacked, sewn
back together
in an order she believes
would have sustained 

such animation. Plagiarizing is
alright as long as she
doesn’t plagiarize 

herself. But it’s too much
work to steal from others. That look 

is for no one—now it belongs
to these worn-down back streets.

Peel Away

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She lives
in a land
of layers/she wants
to break 

free from
cumulative
strength. Why
can’t her own 

skin be enough?

Pulling them apart,
flattening
them with an old press,
she wants plains 

and straightaways
to be enough
poetry to land on.

Weathering Rock

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To fall down
the rabbit hole 

of regret is
to roll in Georgia red
clay mud without 

remembering
it was once dirt.
It will be 

again. To sidestep
and walk quickly by
is to begin to accept 

rain without pretending
you can predict the depth 

of its source.

Not a Thief/A Thief

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A tiny stuffed brown
bear in the snow
in the city, she rescues it
because 

even inanimate ones need
shelter. Or, because
she can’t erase the concrete
image of careless 

disregard, active
rejection.  She wants to build
a story from repurposed pieces
of lives she’ll never know. 

She’s willing
to make it up.
She accepts her shortcomings
with plot, character, 

continuity, a driving force.
She believes the tiny blue
eyes and red inverted umbrella
mouth stitched in 

will be enough
of a lyric to loop 

into a rhythm of how things
get dropped, picked up, and
passed along—or pocketed
for later use.

Long Player

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Cover the Murmur
railroad trestle in snow, it is still

going to be there. Look up
my sleeves—nothing

hidden but a dusting
of time on my forearm,

a ring of vinyl never played
around my wrist. That I like the old

photographs printed and mounted
over song is a symptom

not the disease, and one
of the best ones I’ve got.

aka (Day 2,649)

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She thinks she hears
a confident blues 

guitar play across
the alley. Or, 

she may have just read
a caption to a movie— 

it’s come down to subtitling
her own language again.

This Is That Wednesday

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No smudge for me.
I don’t succumb to that 

ritual anymore. I like
to keep my soul 

anonymous. 

I’ve forgotten how to walk
down city sidewalks marked 

on the outside.
What if someone calls 

my name before
I’m ready? I see one, then two, 

then remember.  A film
maker calls himself 

a freak for wearing a perfect cross
shape. But mine were always 

spills—stamping
my forehead off center.

in medias res redux

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Don’t cut your hair, pull a cap
over the lengthening. Invoke
one ghost and two 

other legends still kicking
around what haunts them
at night when stairs are steep, 

a cellar two stories deep. Narrative
or none, consistent not
likely, they do what they want. I 

see you do too and so much younger. You
may catch up to the age 

of your soul, but not yet.

E-missive (Day 2,646)

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Without sound, how
do I know
what you mean 

when you write
the letter K, when
you sign off with a see
you later? How 

much later? I can’t see
your face—but you
never did give away much
with your eyes. Only 

the tone holding
up or forcing down 

the timbre in your voice
could begin to reveal
what I wish to know.