Along a Morning Fence

i think of white-speckled unshaved hairs
& sunlight’s curve crowning

a disposed Häagen-Dazs wrapper
ivory tossed, disposed,
the white lynx angelic against green vines,
patella along the ridge of the cement,
dovelike mouth merely twisting,

mouthing “sweet strawberry,
why haven’t you come looking?”



(originally published in The Birds We Piled Loosely, Issue 2, January 2015)


Renee on Her Birthday

we are anachronisms
different years in a lifespan

we drink wine
until we have nothing in common

out of our throats, dry and warm
we choke out laughter

which echo into absence
that we cannot seize

(originally published in FishFood Literary & Creative Arts Magazine, November 22, 2014)

From Mother

Live a long life, son. Eat noodles on your birthday.
Al dente. Do it every holiday, so I can live on long

past done spaghetti which sticks upon the wall,
frozen in time against the whims of dun sodden

dust and entities beyond the sounds of crying
from the bathroom at 2 A.M. beneath the black-

dripped canvas of luminous lights. The grass, uncut,
reaches far now above the frizzy tips of your hair



(originally published in The Birds We Piled Loosely – Issue #1)


Be transient. Pass in silence:
the gene pool is the skin

of a zebra, striped black and white,
rippled, ripening like a banana.
You remind me of your mother:

number two pencils, justice,
redemption, black garbage bags in

shopping carts, beer-crusted bottles,
dented cans, crumpled lottery tickets,
used condoms wrapped in the American flag,

potential, the town of your birth.
Wings are chaos in symmetry.

Sandpaper burns as rough
against your fingers as you allow.


(originally published in CARNIVAL, 12/1/2014)