on this rosy day I am Guineverelost in your gray gaze of isinglassover my left shoulder, a bandoleerof daisies woven with lemongrassgive me the crushed grape of your lipsthe silence of red dirt under your feetand my skirt – the wind an errant w

To make poetry's possibleAt home even briefly in the human wild.                              &n

rattled notes on running glass those are the words I remember you byour half young smiles, oyster cats down a clarinet river of hands     back from the corner store with a bottle of chianti that you turn off the television fo

the last bits of everythingdarken my fingernails, I've scrapeda blue slash across the skywhere I imagine France to beall tigers on the corner know where Sunday lieshidden in the stunted pineswhere good intentions and feeling-upscommingle all plum

over suns selling oranges, clouds lie among violets above the world's worms and gawky flitterings    two million rats and rabbits, memories of flesh and bloodremind us to live and die and come to a love's window, feet firs