Poetry Pals

For Rupert and Megan


We’re shadow-catching

at smoldering cosmos,

notebooks full


of some dreams

we’re fanning

on the table.


This remarkable

paper, the way

I feel.



preparing night,

we fit inside


window frames

and look out

for trouble.


The dreams leave

some lights on,

the streaming stars.


How little we are needed.

A sweep of present, forgetfulness,

as numbered minutes switch.


Here spins from a dragonfly

and is felt in my whole body.

A serene, extended purpose.


My hollow can blossom and

scrape a slow shadow across

a moment.


We will leave.

Always tomorrow calls its gibberish

at the bathroom mirror.



And send us more.

We have stayed too long.

There maintains its stare.

And it went like that

it enters inside my knees

message —

allow the days.

But how to distinguish?

It’s embarrassing


These are answers.

Courage to draw a blank.

On the glass of

the hall mirror, is

a fairly accurate



Sometimes stones,

nothing grows.


A gushing stream,

we are busy doing nothing


bend and green

make moving shadows


August. one after the other

as family spills through.


Under the desk lamp,

pages, as I turn forgiveness.


I like the idea of answers.

Or how greatly we disturb the garden.

A forest grows in us

A forest grows in us

sunswept sounds

in our sleep, smile.


We give our world

garble of heartbeats

wrapped around


each other, like

trees wrap around

each other.


A swarm of promises,

like moths sprung —

flicker of this across

his awakening face.

La Primavera

(he slept in his clothes

and beautiful

is a jealous god


brick on brick

that knows itself

from the times before


and yet

paying my rent

on the fall of your hair



the price of tobacco

la primavera


It makes sense

the way bricks do math

the rest of my life


putting on his shoes

and totally absorbing

and I guessed I belonged


The Whole Picture

The picture doesn’t look like much mostly finger and blur-sky

but the ground was all fresh wet pink polka dots to catch

or I wouldn’t have even looked up to see the sun nose

through the clouds snowing down thick pink petals and

tried to catch it, catch myself catching it and got a finger

print and a bit of sky. There’s no room for bitterness in this

walk of a poem. It’s not the sour of “to treasure,” but the sweet.