Did it again, when a deep breath
Then deleted something
About rum and coke down the sink
Midnight morning’s, think
Between the smooth pressed iced
And neat, drinking it all in
Rhythm they’ll not feel like flannel
Against summer’s skin
Shrugged off, of dangling exposure
Moonlight’s floral stare
Preconditioned there between the


Out The Window

Pumpkins don’t grow
On trees in spring…
Three evil sisters just
Squashed a dream…
Dressed up mice
Don’t know how to sew…
Blue birds can’t sing
With no wings to go…

Princes don’t grow
on trees in spring…
Blue birds cry
when they want to sing…
The other shoe fits
if it’s in a dream…
Seen out the window
beat with two clipped wings

She should’ve helped me
She should’ve helped me
Every time they said jump
I would say how high
But then my fairy godmother
Left me high and dry


Traced To Lace

They place a name like crafts or hobby. Making something from something. String is something else.

When an aunt brought back threads relatives made, we eyed their decoration microscopically as easily reproduced. Used linen, bobbins, and whatever else they’d send. Spent as too daunting, disciplined, hardened. Given up to wrinkled, shawled old women sitting by window light. Hunched over their knees. Vermeer paintings.

He was speaking of Bruges at the end. 101 first airborne, locked up. But, wooden shoes, hearty foods, tradition. Belgian dug in as arthritic pigeon claws. Lost in squinted pushes on a million pins. Stick swishes with rhythmic cross, twist, cross. Lost in the cracks of whitewashed walls. Calls past generations draped in grace


Past The Pages

It’s quiet
Not hospital quiet
But like everybody’s
Doing something
It feels
The same as light
Striped interstates
Facing city glows
It goes
Past farm houses
Lit like a business
Flickered out to sleep
It keeps
Me up, wide awake
And staring blankly
At paper lined spaces


Mountains aren’t that high.
On the continental divide,
I saw a ptarmigan in sixty
plus winds. She didn’t flinch.
As tiny yellow phlox beside
dug in. Plane determination,
or indigenous acclimation.
Reverbs, still, fluttering back
tracked distance as the bird


Rilke, my love
You wooed me to shame
You tempted my heart to
“Speak and proclaim”

As your white script pressed
Life on blackboard walls
You didn’t know, or did you
I sat silently in the hall

I couldn’t see the detail
Given by your beauties hand
But I heard each loving beat
As only I could understand

Not lessons, but callings
As by the sighted choice
As I , unseen, watched
Faithful, the osculating voice

Of wings warm and light
Sparkling through the dust
You knew I knew them well
You and I endeared their trust

I surrendered, eyes invisible
Hues through blackened words
As soul’s spectrum bared
To asystole’s song, unheard

The angels, yes, and you
Did not glance behind depart
Rilke, my love
You have broke my heart


Counted cross eyed
One, blue birds off limits
Two, ink should be clock
Replaced stories off
The verbatim, like a chin
Leaned on, cause it’s there
Into mortar meeting
Chinked interlocking fingers
Held before the beat reaches