2711 Aldrich Avenue South

Still bare from a long winter, my favorite
tree has grown
crazier than I remember. One wildly long branch

reaches across the street
to shake hands with its fellow elder
on the block. Just one

south of the CC Club. I never enter
that darkness anymore. Someone leaves
a black teapot on top

of a recycle bin—yes or no? Do it.
Knock it in. Everything
deserves a second chance.

Anything Can Be Sculpture

And under glass: Clifford,
the Blind Fairy, Green
Eggs and Ham, Corduroy,
Celia and the Sweet,
Sweet Water, Elsie
Times Eight, and so on

across the plane
of a table top. Hard
cover nonfiction
for legs. I see no reference
books recycled into rocking
chair runners. No poetry

collection lamp stands. But
with eyes closed
anything can be.


When a building gets braided
before the roof settles, who can
predict how high

the electric fence
will need to be. And she’s come to
under the wire

often enough to care.
Each measure is always longer
than it sounds.

Speaker Less Easy

These legs ache
from the act of hauling
the memory

of his voice and brilliant
wisecracks out my door, down
the back stairs, to the alley

dumpster. Done. I lean
these old wooden idols against the iron
base on wheels. I believe

in the potential to recycle
everything—the divers will come
out tonight. I wear this stiffness

as a badge of endurance. You
threw out mine almost as soon

as you heard it
in an age before reuse.