April 26

I’m getting versed in the unspeakable:
the architecture of a lung, tributaries

of veins, and pain, all kinds: white-hot,
bone-ache. Removed from all contexts

a bruise can be beautiful: pastel,
galactic, nascent. The way skin

grows up against a suture, shifting
dunes. If all goes well, we replace

ourselves. This is the brachial,
this the subclavian—

a life is motion, and nothing less.


April 4

The blue of day becomes the blue
of night. Low jet planes tracking

their way down, the flame
of a heater inside its glass tube,

genie-like, what would I wish
for? More light, or lightness,

whatever quality it is
that becomes so pronounced

in its absence. That I could
soften this pumice heart,

abrasive, with all its pockets
of emptiness. Another song

of another sparrow. That I
would finally know better.

That a night would stay
a half-lidded eye, the horizon

still furious
with life.


March 20

Sometimes dismay
the price of ownership—

this unruly garden
not soft or settled,but built up

with intent and too-rough edges.
Still, a weed can flower,

and sunlight descends again,
low, springy, rupestrine—

still, joy in organic geometries.
I pick out rocks

with a rusty trowel, an indigo jay
shouts out its indigo call,

but harbingers are tricky—
I don’t know know know

know know, either,
creating so many holes

and filling them all
with seeds the color

of bone, small teeth, life
to spring up from these

sharpest of shards,
from these committals,

small green tongues,
like benedictions—

stilled life, still, life, so go,
grow in peace.


February 23

At first the night, and then
the reckoning, that special brand

of dread, like a sleeping
limb, still there, present,

painfully so


something blooming just outside
the yard not jasmine not lilac not

honeysuckle not any flower I know
or have managed yet to find–


if a lesson, like a scent,




[+A million apologies for being derelict in wordpress activity of late]


February 16

A hill under rain. Today
no seagulls wheel and whistle

like scratched glass above
a half-filled lot. Which isn’t

to say silence, no,
this city expands

like vapor to fill
a space, yellow cranes

like stork legs, that idea
of nascence–

which doesn’t actually
countermand death– a square of sky

where a building once stood,
rubble-dust dampened by another

sudden shower. A hill
from trees, and land

from sea, just
like the weather, living

here, we run such
a very fine margin–


February 15

Tableau: fake flowers
in an enameled clay vase,

the kind with birds
and bird-like lines–

yesterday’s coffee
rewarmed, the bitterness

doused in lait
partiellement écrémé–

bright horns gild
the otherwise silence,

some neighbor listening
softly to Ring of Fire–

beyond, the water.
Yesterday we watched

the tide sweep out,
skookumchuch slipping

through fingers
of land, with vortexes

and contrary eddies,
spoken, taken aback, deadly–

orange urchins, broken
like eggshells, littered

the rocks, exposed
and lit upon by

watchful gulls.
We stood at the edge

and guessed at depth
and a light rain fell,

is falling now, although
it’s difficult to say–

actions muddled by shades
of gray, is it fog, or mist

that settles
on the pines? I don’t

particularly care
to make a distinction–