Friday, February 21, 2014


My teacher says that when you break a cup
it's best to think of it as having been
a broken thing before you picked it up.
Illusory, the wholeness it was in.

Beneath the metal's sheen was always rust;
the dream was dead the moment it was born.
The stars were never more than colored dust,
my feelings for you never more than torn.

It hits me as I see that you are calling:
you see rose where I see petals falling

Monday, February 10, 2014

Indecision Cycle: poem 1

what I do know
is that that sh
irt sitting on top of
those other shirts
needs to be just sl
ightly farther
to the left and
just slightly farther
back toward the--
back of the closet

it feels so much
righter there

especially after I
pat it three times
with the tips
of two fingers

four times

actually five

Thursday, February 6, 2014


If I were not me I'd be sleeping now
but me I am and so awake I stay.
My slowing thoughts bespeak the undertow
that pulls to bed and then another day,

but I drift aimless high above its reach;
my mind befuzzed does not react to sense,
and I'm more like to swim right back to beach
than give my soul and body recompense.

And so the tide I know I should pursue
recedes without me every night anew.