Monday, April 17, 2017


charcoal cylinders
ululate winter's ingress
still forests wait
swarms of pulp and fly
freckle the vellum mantle
light trickles in
wind luffs
my nightgown
tight as skin
the sky expands
a wire of seperation
over bare land

Owl Remembers

the black wolf
comes to eat at night
blankets and looms
the thicket hollow
pitch few can navigate well.
is a deep pool
buried beneath ecotone
a baldachin that webs back
ungulates detritus
velvets the wind
and notches bones 
from the yawn.

Monday, October 24, 2016


My dead eye is a sacred vestibule
an old eggshell, a single reach
of stem rise and leaf spread.

Her body is the mother of me.
A body married to expansion.
A body I can not control.
A body that swells to perpetuate.

Seed in me becomes
the surface of the moon split on it’s quarter.

I look into the mirror
in order to fleet darkness
and drink water from the fall
because it smells like mountains
and carries the innocence of earth.

My left body remembers
a solitary voyage
through the firmament
a diaphragm pulling air down to root.

Each hair bristle, each naked dusk
calls back. Expand.
Expand and come into form.

Saturday, May 11, 2013

We Are Blue Folk Under Our Skin

The whole of cellular syrup
is jumbled with salt.
It clings to the underground
with longing for drink and food
it hungers for a body.
I watched the moon resign her pool of milk
to give the earth order and edges.
The memory of it gathers flowers
beneath last years wild
and quenches the short forever

for now.

Thursday, August 2, 2012


my palm counters clockwise, looses shades of green from corners out open windows. we t(w)o pursue center. seeds and hulls and flower shaped systems spiral from the heart to the belly, pervade soil beyond the roots of trees, beyond bedrock. our fence is sway and faded. pressed by the rheumy quiet of transformation. wisteria has twined itself around posts. each night an opossum balances the pickets, toes twisted for grip, bobbing in and out of darkness. breath goes to all the places breath is supposed to go. i see silence, feel vacancy. in a meadow an amethyst sloughs it’s crust. follow grass Love, rustle blades, open each sheath, and spread to the becoming..

Sunday, September 11, 2011


tanagers whistle toward the flock
criss-cross mountain range
and follow marsh.
precise are the skies
abundant the earth
refuge is quiet and waiting.
to harness power is shortsighted
the grids are laid out.
when they open to a field
the sky is
wrought with red
most rise silent.
there is an order of return
when the time comes
wings break way
and the path is known.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Friday Morning Fire

Sparks blow to the confluence
0ur fire burns to shard and ashes
ice is on the ground.
Iris stalks are thick with buds
pale from lack of food
the absence of sun.
One week sooner
might have staved off death.
This year’s openings
too tired and too broke.
I’ve never told I want
to skip over lines of the labyrinth
am afraid to cheat
haven’t watched an owl
fly through the window
or been to Scotland.
The way you’ve grown into
your body is beautiful
never thought that would happen
or that I could reconcile
me growing out of mine.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Mockingbird Review

Incite one call
that growth matters.
A swoop of eyes
machined to watch
nature appear again
and the world buds
dark sisters
green shadows
that work best
under intense radiance.
They recognize curtains and linger on
numbed down pathways
ripped out coastlines.
They mark water
and adopt kindness
pretend not to salivate
all intention fixed
beyond the wire.

Saturday, February 5, 2011


Before rain, flies cling to the window screen
and the under side of leaves turn up
wide to take on water.
There cometh a shower, the bible says
and a fierce wind will blow.
I can bend simple enough
pass through prism and sky to pull
the blunt force of sun as it strikes a raindrop.
You are refracted light
and I emerge eggshell above blue
reaching and reaching.
The right choice will come to pass
for no one can really see day
until it moves on the horizon
loaded with reasons to keep wholly alive
every nuance outstretched for the fringe
every wonder pressed into a deep brow.
We scream for the stars to come closer
to our avalanche of complacency.
Slow and private, they are on their way.

Absolute (Joshua Tree)

The sun conceives ground

curled north enough

to move stars

longitudes that must

be plod alone.

Each left stroke

ignites summer

swells the sky.

The air

a benediction

of immutable days


Calm ignites


Wholeness is chosen

then remembered


Words lie

past care


so we are silent

and sacred

and solitary

on the rocks.


Secrets are visible at their tip
curved toward the heart
as stalk bound for water.
We pull back
but seed and root rush out
a swallow becomes a jolt
eventually a pulse
in the dark of ground
hyacinth handed down from mother
to son and every daughter
the dryness of love
the wet of the body
has no choice but to crest
hold in the belly
and wosh in the cold white of lungs.


Angles of light are the song
of a body woven in morning
fire and cord and swollen
white in the air.
We strain to right our vision
against a pink sky
so trees will come into focus
escape prisms that reflect
the thick of day and turn toward
the interclavicular of darkness.
Take care our voices echo off the the lake.
There is still surprise when Earth calls.
One does not arrive simply
but must be pushed in and pulled out
each wave of intention
each shift of eye
mulched between
heartbeat and bone.


Unbearable to watch
the body change.
My yesterday wants
to join the border of you
when we were ordained
the essence of one another
before we understood
many will never find their way
and vague apologies
like I’m sorry to end it like this
or happiness is what I hope for
are dreaded strokes into a tunnel.
You call it the silence of god
with something smacking of pride.
I call it a mind fuck
that obscures the extraordinary
bonds that unite
and set the body in motion.
The beat in the soft of a throat
the high when I feel
a glint of your eye before I see it.
Our familiar is recorded in
each soft and loosed finger
slowly conditioned to let go.


The body flies, it spits

Black, polish and water.

Round and round secrets spoon

In the toe of low quarters

The white noise

Of bristle against leather

Heeled and soled, surged and starched

Until the mission is over

Save two scars in the wall of your scalp.

The heart yellows over

Believing that someone will

Take and become truth given.

An inventory of what could be done better

Hangs limp and ineffective.

A pulsing tongue

Waits to take control

Flicks behind teeth

Pinions and coils

To beat to hell

Soft urging, dark grabbing

Pancaked, budded palms

And desire swallowed

As asparagus gone to wood

Stringy and hard and sallow.


Sleep comes
vivid and holding
thrust in curves of serration
helpless to decipher
between weed and flower
iron stain or rust.
The cool beneath my pillow
expels river-thick heat
to cypress from jalousie.
Days are reckoned
as laundry strung out
children laughing
and the consideration
of each first gush
that all are called to the wellspring
clumsy and unaware
mid stalks and thorns
and urge(d) to drink.