carry me on a westbound trailfloat me on a boat to Baliwhen I was four and smallerthan I am now, I could fly on a lung-fullof air       red-line route sixcross country to California – a route scotty dogsblack

The test tonight begins: What might she hearamidst the spiral whirs of Sunflower starscaught in the tight’ning loops of Bootes’ sphere?His hounds? A hawk swoops down through millibarsof atmosphere dropped from his fingertips –the ra

nowhere is there an organized yard under which the quiet moon weeps the attention to kisses kicks back memories of adoloscenceempties me to your voice sketchinga shaman's hopscotch       I blow a trumpetinto the rai

I was outside, sizing up the seasondeciding if tomorrow would bring frost or temperance       do I look in the mirrorand see pearly whitesor do I sit beside a yellow-lined padand bleed blue inkthe pigeons aren&rsquo

in this world of motion and distance if I could surprise just the smallest piece of youif I could buy you a house on a lakea home built of logs       throw wood split with my sweat into a fieldstone fireplace to cha

the oldest pine at the end of my drivewayis holding up stars like Christmas ornamentsthe arrow pointing to red tulipswaiting beneath the surfacewet all night in a raincoat        breathbarely able to percolate

I was waiting on the other side of Sunday     train tickets driving a path to the Big Dipper         footstepsthat might find the cherry treeor your image in a bonfirehours and wat

ancient copper pots boilingo’er the fire    he squeezes himselfinto a space so small it is almost absurdin a leather pouch he holds the teethof his ancestors, priest and warriormother and lovershould the social occasion occu

I visit coffee shops look at blue eyes and browneat donuts and drink lattes fat with cream hoping to reach critical massa grazed edge of a curtainand there are eyes behindI feel them     the instrumentsof atom dissection are

for jimI went outside to see if the stars had movedor if the moon had shaved the last sliverI went out to feel the peace of a distant car pushing airin a shush, to hear the streetlight vibrate –instead the high pitched scream of a woman in the

some days crest on the edge of a knifea silent causeway of silver that mimicsthe metallic taste of water in her bedside cupa leg swung over the edge of the bed buckles at the knee     she, ill at ease in an ill-fitting skinta

it may be time to speakbut when I think I’ve pinpointed wordsthey shake free from the wallyou carry a star in your left handand I leave it up to you to write the next verse finding lifein a pot of daffodils    people walkdow

her back strangles on spangled ice, an out-calling of words he should have sung while norway tucked away tin bucks the lawn was shingled in feet blood molecules slivered in her out streams from playground balls sweet-down and low-forth, workerbees pu

the little girl sitting in the cornerwatched ocean wavelengths the color of chilesshe knew from science class that redwould barely warm her fingersthat blue, pumped through her body,might stop her heartthe narrator shifts the focus nowknowing her dec

i. a kiss to polarisabove all whole comes the day’s lawnyour monochromatic golden teacherends the nineties the on the end             and we and  omelettes  &n

the moon is resting on her back tonighthalf a moon with a blue ring underneath she waits for stars to drop down and fill her bellythe stars are stingy at 1 AM – she takesa taxi to IHOP for silver dollar pancakesand boysenberry syrup  

the night star runs from a cavewhere inside lies a light buriedunder limestone lakes       its inquestbegins     questions in a dirty winterand snows that have been abandonedto the street's