August 21, 2016

August 19, 2016

Our street: A clockwork made of dog walkers.

August 11, 2016

The tallest of trees are dancing.

August 4, 2016

August 1, 2016

"In no other nation is tomorrow so vivid, yesterday so pale." 

Roger Cohen, from "Obama's American Idea"

July 16, 2016

The coffee is not strong enough 
for all this death.

July 15, 2016

Our words are quick- 
sand now.

July 13, 2016

July 7, 2016

July 5, 2016

I can do better. 
     I tell myself. 
     I tell myself. 
     I tell myself.

June 28, 2016

We willingly trick ourselves over dinner. Road trip tall tales and the too-soon return of cool weather.

June 23, 2016

Undated notes from a museum: the fight and tangle of things, the one piece that holds

June 20, 2016

June 6, 2016

One color after another. After another.

March 23, 2016

Small joys at a new house: The bulbs you didn't plant come up.

February 10, 2016

"Month of the least death poetry, 
I pity you..."

— John Poch, from "February Flu"

October 10, 2015

Find me a window. 

July 24, 2015

June 27, 2015

I spent years writing what would not be. Light 
filtered through thick branches. 

How old are we when we learn to fear our words, 
our own thoughts festering. 

It's the religion of poetry that squelches,
the institution. So many saints come before you. 

And who are you to write? No ordaining body.
Pick up the snake and tame it. What's the worst it could do? 

May 27, 2015