A Three-Legged Race

Reading a poem can be like thisreader and writer one leg bound in texttogether only sort of, joined at hiphurrying before they lose all interest reader…

The Transparent Self

Who is speaking, and who’s reading this?Keats said a poem has no self yet we show up with one, writer or readerthinking we are it until…

Fire Dance

Its red-orange limbs leap and slide over the wood’s surfaces as if exploringwhat to eat next by scent.What’s burning is behind it, this is escapingwood-embodied energy…

Forsaking Names

“Just as a person is what they always were, so they already are what they will become.”– Carl Jung We’re wanderers all, shedding nameswith their moments…

The Other Journey

      (after Tomas Transtromer) The other journey, the one we’re always on but don’t know of except now and then in pauses, where nothing is happening…

A Day in Moments

The winds pause though never for longan inner buddha holds up a cell phonefew in its huge crowd notice, only one sees, smilesA small boy playing…

Roping Poems

I know I’m not a cowboy and this beast’s not a cowan antelope, a porcupine, a buzzard or a deerit has three eyes, no four, no…

Under Fire

(for Alice Oswald) Knowing we’re under fire is more than a beginningit’s a flash turning, a leap into a diminishing spacebetween life and deathA war on…

July Aubade

Eyes won’t open. Seen through their lidsthe room has taken on mingled colors of morning lighta prism or water vapor would make rainbows ofcloudless, sunny, promising…