Wednesday, August 12, 2015


Hard times followed her like
a cape. It was nothing
in her look. It was nothing
in her words. It was something
in her walk

She had this stagger –
tripping over air as if
a stick swung from the chest
carves the breeze;
stabbing heart and
legs of scissors

I saw her walking into the store
from the parking lot, crossing
the white diagonals with her green
high heels, cutting botched emeralds
in the lines beneath

Her legs seemed to disagree
As she wobbled across,
and the greeter – having a smoke
down at the corner – had
a nonplus smile and turned back,
urgently, to the shadows

Friday, July 31, 2015


Morning fog rises
deep between oaks and
elms that solute to
the north side of the river

My mind’s heavy from
tobacco wedged between my gums
and the sleep fog that hovers
in my early-morning mind
as I stare from the bluffs

The curious sun peeks above
the rolling hills in the distance
like a child looking tip-toed
and unrelenting over a railing
at a zoo in summertime

My sunglasses paint the world
sepia and things are separated
by gradations of shades and shapes:

bronze intensities,
chestnut delineations,
foregrounds and backgrounds
that stamp impressions

cottonwood wisps float from
branches somewhere thinking
themselves raindrops

I’m sure there are sounds
out there – sounds of the woods
and sounds of organisms –
but all I hear now is breath

Soon, there will be others here –
people walking on the path behind me –
but I will choose not to notice them
as they scan their steps over rocky hills
and fatigue hugs them with paternal arms

Monday, June 15, 2015

After Work One Day

You find yourself
sitting there
at the bus stop curb
looking up and seeing sweat fall
from a man’s head trickling,
unphazed from the steam that whispers
from the grate where another woman’s foot
waits for a road to elsewhere

There’s water spots
on the shelter glass where
rain dried and loitered by
a panel
where somebody with dollar-sign intentions
tagged their name with a black marker

You see a man near
               the intersection,
a black man with a corona for a beard -
he sits cross-legged and slouched with
a sign and an outstretched hat
with the bill half-torn