To Cross the Path of an Albino Squirrel on Friday the 13th

To hang sconces
so low they could poke
an eye out. To climb
a ladder left
to rot beside
a dead pigeon still
in perfect form. To bruise
the right
wrist when the left
ankle is already packed
in ice. To be so
vulnerable is no more
bad luck than
cracking up in full
length mirrors.

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?


I can almost taste
the snow—nothing
good ever comes

from that. A late March double
espresso might neutralize
the palate. Might

not. A family
reunion in August resuscitated
to honor my father. I

never went when he was
alive. How can I
go now? August is

the month of grand
gestures, spiritual releases.
August is

the month he left
us. Yes, I told him
he could let go, but

how could I know
what it would be like
to live in a world without

his heart beating
in it? August is the month
when water

falling majesty just
might return.

Charade Stage

I would recognize that voice—not
the person using it—anywhere. For you,
maybe eyes. Reunions
only work if there was a union
to begin with. It’s no time
for atonement or ridiculous
honesty. Not going
to lean into this one.