Category: Poetry

a disk of light / fall on the glass // could be the full autumn moon / through trees / but it’s the wind

The sound of coyotes comes in off the balcony. Our dog stares, wild-eyed.

A week ago, I made a list of things I want to change. This morning, I assess progress.

An old game, // asking what you would do with an extra hour / if you had one.

When I open the door in the summer / three sparrows, picking crumbs off the threshold, / always scatter in an instant: small, brown, / so quick they are like excited heartbeats.

Even though my neighbor's car was stolen, and she has cancer or has had cancer, and now the street has an absence in it, like a missing tooth.

You blink back so many red veils // so often they stop being blood. The fur / of your parka becomes indistinguishable / from your own hair.

I am flexible and flickable, buoyant, / pulpable. These are my only truths. / And the golden rail down my back // like a wick of fire.