• Should I Fold My Kite?

    Doing my small

    thing is easy

    in this city

    of wilderness;

    nothing fancy

    my wherewithal.

  • Polysyllabic Muse

    Suddenly she

    wants a brick wall

    and a big dog

    in her quarters,

    sconces with wax

    puddling o’er.

  • Starting for Shore

    Ancestor boy


    your small public

    with a weakness

    for wandering,

    cantor of rain.

  • Witch Hazel Eyes

    The coy of my ancestor,

    a royal 17-year-old

    with a fantastic scowl,

    warms me from the brink.

  • Frond of Sleep

    To my ancestor

    selves, living in the graveyard

    of my age,

    I listen at night.

    They sometimes whisper a slight

    word of reminder I am them too.

  • I Wake Up

    I wake up


    the birds

    to sing to

    myself a pause,

    and pretty


    the birds

    are filling

    it with their

    own music of

    trembling the air.

    I waited in line


    for fame,

    and when

    it was my



    shook me

    from the slower

    dream I was already




  • Use the Door on G Street

    My hometown is

    wherever pen

    and paper greet

    like I’ve never

    left the old fen

    of loam and peat.

  • Pawning for Knight

    The orchid roots

    are wet slender

    green creeping slugs

    in the red mix.

    Art and ardor

    make good cahoots.

  • The Unprofessional

    I’m crawling out

    from behind my


    really, it’s me—

    from purblind years

    of falling in.

  • Candescent

    Because there is wind and rain

    and because I am waiting

    inside for the good coffee

    to finish percolating,

    because I was warm last night

    as my instant dreams caressed

    and because the distant train

    intones like a Wurlitzer,

    I know I am here.