I have put pen to much that I ought not have
written, including, perhaps, these very words.

I have mistaken Ragweed for Goldenrod,
alleyways for gardens, watched them torn out,

Dearest, I meant to prove myself worthy of every challenge, up to death itself. The day began with feats of strength, like getting out of bed and brushing my teeth. I took till noon to venture out; by then the […]

You needn’t believe in ghosts to dance with them. Just ask the Robin napping in the quiet of a broken fountain, drunk on jasmine and sugar. Ask drowsy Orion, who was up all night, or the Taiga, bent on its […]

To write love poems when this world’s a mess
is like, depending on your point of view,
finding jasmine on the moon—an excess
of joy where all is bleak—or dreams of blue
sky at night, of food in famine…

I can’t decide anything these days: sonnet or free verse;
to read on the couch or spend my son’s brief nap putting

away dishes as if dishes could ever stay clean; hope or
despair…