August 29

No moon for all this rain–
I’d almost forgotten how

to say it, how the night
sounds on the eaves,

a fallen world, the maples
heavy with it, the pines’ roots

re-establishing themselves,
how quickly we all forget.

I had a life before this,
with space enough,

and didn’t want
for much, there were

the stars, the moon,
and other silent sentinels,

some emptiness
but I can’t

quite remember
how hollow it felt,

the thought of you
spills in, now,

like warm marrow
in my bones,

or the yellow glow
of the low full moon

that I know is behind
these clouds,

this release, this relief,
I know just how

a parched world

easily, and with such
immense gratitude–

we’ve waited,
after all, oh how

we have been


August 28

Another city night, velvet
-textured, wine-hued,

here on the roof deck,
in a glass bowl

of new construction–
the sharp angles

of stilled cranes flashing
intermittent red–

and sometimes
a night is just

peaceful, I don’t know
what distinguishes it

except this soft,
late, light, the sky

that settles in
like an always

-faithful tide,
a sense

of containment,
yet kind, and spacious–


August 25

What a momentous act
to fold the shirt

and to place it
in the wardrobe

and such a long
long time

since I’ve had
such latitude

so why do I go
about thin-voiced

bird-ish asking
may I may I may I 

befuddled but
like some happier Kafka

I seem to have woken
up with wings



[again thank you all for kind comments– looking forward to catching up on them shortly!]


August 18


A strange thing,
this geometric
city living.

The night sky
is always pink here,
with residual heat—

I’ve never seen a star,
only the boxy glow
of the higher high-rise,

the landing lights
of planes swallowed up
by clouds (I assume)

no birds, no breeze,
just isolated trees
and the audible gradients

of interminable descent,
and I always wake up
tired. Selah.


August 16

Here another summer
day like any other

just like any other
and between being left

and leaving
I know which I prefer–

Unsettling wind
I wake to news of fire

on the butte
and the power gone out

and KOZI off the air
and level 3 orders

to get out now
and a pile of dead

goats at a ranch
that burned overnight

and horses run off
like open-ended questions–

Only a slight haze,
here, a tinge

of regret, chagrin,
I am far away,

too far away,
a morning like this

and I can only
pick doubt

out of a heavenly
blue sky–


August 11

A pink gray sky
no sleep dead heat

every few seconds
a car rolls down

the street like a sigh
like a slow-moving wave

and the star I thought
I saw was only a plane

and no birds sing
even though it’s more

morning than night
now I’ve watched

every single lonely hour
crumple and go on