June 21

comment 1

tannin of disappointment
how it clings

like a soft bitter leaf
stains an evening

seeps into a day
full sun solstice

even here
longest day and longest

cast a stone

and ripples
cast a doubt

and the breeze
might not even be real

June 13

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a day of too many
quiet rooms

no balm for it
words on a page

too linear
the page too square

all coming back to right
angles, edges, each a precipice–

if potential was
always positive

a heart would not

June 11

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back from the ocean
city night sounds

windows open
to let the night in

what else to say
it hums with some

energy not unlike
a tide

changing also
gradually but impossible

to refute
not unlike this sunburn

or how much
I’m missing you

June 8

comments 4

this night is loud
the house continually

a clatter of stars

or do they ring out
like fallen coins

to steal a moment

there can be no hesitation
a minute must be

occupied completely
by nothing at all

a low jet-plane
and thoughts intrude

and now it is
just late

dawn coming head-on
from miles away

June 6

comments 2

the way a summer day
lingers, and the night, too

a golden thing won’t go–
some minutes are a life

of possibility,
the breeze shakes the shades

and sunbeams shift
on the floor like seagrass

underwater, ephemeral,
summer, how many ways

it could go, or stay, first
cool of evening, but still light

out, birdcall and voices
from afar, and summer fruit,

the lazy sweetness of it all,
each hour rising up

like super-heated air,
the mirage on blacktop,

contrails, first stars
and crescent moons before the sun

even sets, too full, too
full, what hour could contain this

May 21

comments 3

Late late morning
a ripple on the lake

a standing wave
or complicated wake

two lizards sunning

and not much else
to say, calm

and soft here, East
of the mountains

I watch descents:
parasails, quails

the crescent day moon
the onerous ray of sun

and spare a thought
for yours:

did your crampons bite?
did the pack give way? Alone

in the shade of static,
fixed hills, I wonder, and wait.

May 20

comments 2

more wilderness here
in a square foot

than home
already hotter

than predicted
these clouds

look like a child
drew them

and incessant songbirds
insisting it’s not

summer yet
that we are still

such a strange

this year is

given in to longing
at every margin

still snow in the passes
and this baslamroot spent

May 13

comments 3

Flower moon milk moon
strange weather

these days
which came first

the sun or all
this rain

the gingko come back
overnight it seems

or maybe I’ve
been away

wet footings
insubstantial sleep


flower moon milk moon
must exert some tide

some pull a dream
some days can seem

more real but still

electric green
leaves convulsing

in the wind
thunder predicted

and waiting as giving


milk moon flower moon
what sort of stupid

names the moon is a cold
dead rock held fixed

in place in space
by solveable equations

this spring succor
contrived I suppose

and the white sand line
at low tide nothing like

exposed bone or tendon
manufactured exquisiteness

and waiting as taking


flower moon milk moon
lost on a drive back

a change of direction
and it fell off the horizon

May 1

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At the laundermat
police up the street

corraled bikes
like spilt jacks

across Pike street
mostly quiet for now

the insustrial
-sized drier

cranks on and off

highest capacity.

All day helicopters
in droning flight

half fly, half

it keeps coming
back to mouths

to feed, inches
given and miles

of streets,
some feet,

some footnotes, people
don’t realize, you know, if

you think about it,

a quote,

and a false entreaty.
Papered windows

just in case.
We put the quarter

in the slot, and
another, and another.

In every thing, a hunger.
The dryer kicks

on again, the mass
of sheets comes undone,

and in this tree
a robin sings

in a spray of
new buds and leaves

and in that other
world it’s spring

April 25

comments 3

and then a silence
becomes unspeakable

spring rain gentle
except for when it is not

complacency split up
by unusual intermissions

damp green and watery
themes the creek up

the lake spilling
its bounds each leaf

recoiling back
to how it was

or wasn’t
can this transition

be considered
status quo

how a season
always goes

in object definitions

always a before
even these mountains

and the expectation
of after

breaths collect
in cool damp air

seen for a moment
a brief thought, that weight–