Category: Poetry

    Love is not a maiden with apple buffed hair. No. Love is eating rare tuna steak and swallowing your dental bridge in the process, three jagged teeth sl...

    We were lost in the yellow of spring             when the bombs went off.  All over our backyard, irises were erupting   from the ground, laying claim ...

    What heals, what carries us through? Music for the closing of eyes, to carry us through the dark; and the rise and fall of remembered words, and compan...

    My mother watered in the dark in porch light: reading hour, tucking in hour; she hauled wheelbarrows of trees wrapped in burlap.   Once I fak...

    She follows you everywhere. You’ve heard other people say  they’ve forgotten a voice, or a face, but right now   even the exact quality of her fin...

    I burdened the world enough, alive. In death, let me not be impervious, indigestible, not another container locked, sealed, and stacked Beneath an...

Baltimore, Maryland   Going from Hard Rock to the other shops Across Inner Harbor, the little girl In blue shorts, yellow T, catches on To her grandpa’s ga...

    What do I know of God but that each winter I thank him for it? No spider webs snagged in the bluestem, no horseflies at rest in cones of henbit, no slu...

  I don’t know how she learned of sadness. Our curriculum was always joy. When we lost all her houses, she lived well enough in mine. When we quarreled   o...

    It straddles the brook, Holding its builder’s poem: “On Doing Nothing;”    Four chairs, three empty— Which is most alone? The hike Yesterday is here,  ...