Camille some days she was a lady in green – la japonaise – some afternoons she picnicked nude with men hiding behind neat suits of broadcloth those days she sat on her knees, bosom blushing at her lover’s compatriots other days she

days rise from a witch's brew ------------------------------------------------------------------------ should winter call us in from last year's leaves - our shifts stitched from the palms of norway maple - should we shed oxblood sleeves

Winter’s white cremation – from its quietus kali shoots arrow-tipped croci. She greets this bed of nails sprung from the ashes of the elements, from anger and lust                                   with

I’d set him down in a basket of clean laundry so I could tend to my own needs for a second and he sprawled so trustingly, thighs splayed, knees bent so toes closed a keyhole that I had to snap the shot that sits in the frame next to

two months of rain made yesterday’s three hours of sunlight ethereal we turned the bend of the pond onto a beaver house growing a green roof and beyond down the way, onto an apple orchard in angel

Acknowledgements Animus - convexity Blue Fifth Review - of wives and mothers Erotica Reader’s and Writer’s Association - Chimera, three on light, our unmade bed, Forgetting my manners, sans culottes MiPo - palm fronds should be coiffed just

The luna moth rushes corners of a black pond.A bird buries hip deep into a purple trumpet.The bird asks why the moth wears no clothes –the moth questions a fountain needed to resew the air.Both buzz wings faster than my heart speaks.The weight of m

I've been watching, no waiting- holding myself breathless -for trees to greenI swung out on a thirty foot rope lookingup into the biggest baddest oakwith leaves larger than a foot in a flipflopI wanted this, have been pinchingbuds, testing them for t

Omphaloskepsis Only God can satisfy the hungry heart of man.                             ~ sign at the Open Door Bible Church As I drive by I grin & start humming (everybody's got a hungry heart by the other Boss), but

acquiring each other the only color outside his window,her red kerchief flags a cove fogged in the day’s first incantationshe breathes in coffee and saltas she touches her lips, breast, hips -a tentative press to test the welcome ache he expec

  rainbow fish for the delusional hang on the moon sliver just above the horizon          hang from silver coattailscrawl under the tide's blanketand fill red pails with sugared sandthe rain dissolves snow slippers from my feetmixes the o

offerings to ancestors   human of day, gather altruism for the well-intentioned,     look to the interlocking shampoo             of stars  attentive      attentive the stars bartenders of pensive ceremonies,    the well-

rainy rains hiss into my espresso we’ve left our good manners behind with the company – he has his arm around my drunken waist, the other hand shakes fingers in a naked oration that strips sidewalk poseurs of their windy fizz          

convexitya snowdrop’s dew dropsplinters into a thousand bellsand the thousand ears that hear itrest on six legs or a thousand –millipedes low down closest to earthen heartbeatsshe wipes the wine glassinside out, forgetting fragility,gashed by hal

ploùra, ploùra, ploùracontentsGloss on a Bouquet of Objects      1before I disappear        2all their characters reflected in my face     3Beantown Madrigal        6Not this cow! (after Philip Levine)      8Bit Pa

cupiditybrews a pot of espresso beyond the grey lineof gravestones      shows the chapfallen city in its exploration for the fox                cradling her apparition     she talks the performance, ( not your good buzz     

a birthday poemtake in this drowsy scene of companions:      he’s lying on his belly to watch the Daddy       longlegs hump      she’s stretched supine,      ears tuned to omnivorous birds, eyes              

Of wives and mothers The audibility of my thoughts is evident only to you, thank god –centesimos dropped in a tin cup, the cry of a wandering albatross. Within the herd, the rumbling bellies of cows keep time to Easter bells, force us gladly toward

palm fronds should be coiffed just so    in deepest Brittany, she rides   the evening – ears afire – a gramof dinner napkin   marking the corner of her smileher hum gives the buggy’s wheels   a colored tilt            p

WITH NO WOLF TO GUARD THE DOORthe afternoon dreamsagainst stationery of bruised berriesits waxed seal, the moonstrains to wish itself into beinghere I make us soup of spit and twigsand the vestigial fins of fishesto store in copper cauldrons—I pres

a directivewhen falling into the trust of your body,(brown-eyed camera, its window perpendicular to the world) a nod of self-understandingforgives greednot every uncle is who he seems, ersatz ermine wraps itself around your neck and still the escapem

when my thoughts are my ownonly when dark fallscan I find my wayecholocationmy cries rebounding offyour skin - a drum headChladni patterns shaken and drawnbow-strings of hair the press of a finger to the still center of all vibrationsurmounts the wak

driving in a blizzard, listening to nprthe road ahead looks narrowlooks small, looks as if Paul Bunyonhas taken up soap carvingand is piling his leavings on I-95a turnpike plow appears ahead -- its yellow arrow points me to the leftover a strip of sl