Poetry
Poem of the Week
It wants to name the dead—without a name you wander lost in the sky.
Poem of the Week
It was spring: the field, a botanist’s mirage of wild flowers.
Poem of the Week
It was the truth of it all—hunger’s chill, the scream beneath the surface.
Poem of the Week
We are good at thinking we can stay. We are good at finding hurt.
Poem of the Week
Wrung taut & tender at the soft play of fingertips, we breathe desires.
Laughter takes refuge in bodies no longer coaxed to move. Nature becomes a thought.
Poem of the Week
There is something on my mind rushing up as river in a locked car.
Poetry
Cat food smells even unopened like vomit and I don’t trust cats.
Poetry
Where will we go and how will we steer when the cars are gone?
Poem of the Week
You gave me blue and I gave you yellow. Together we are green.
Poetry
What I became was not pretty. Like a needle on water-warped paper.
Poetry
Re: murdering democracy, oiling the shore, shearing the rain forest.
Poem of the Week
I wouldn’t know what to do with the body, gills pumping like an accordion.
Poem of the Week
there is no place on this earth I can run from my own prejudice
Poem of the Week
it’s hard not to be obsessed with your own shadow I don’t tell him
Poem of the Week
The next time we made love, I looked for the fox looking down at me.
Poem of the Week
When you write the story of being a father don’t leave out the joy.
Poem of the Week
Across sage flats, tundra, and bleeding hearts, she escapes.
iPoems
The girls got drunk, danced to Russian karaoke under disco-light glitz.
Poem of the Week
Blame the juncos outside. Sopranos in one tree, altos in another.
Poetry
I make a point of smelling the lilac every day that first week in May.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
Because I can love every small thing.
Poem of the Week
Make It Big, all return and rhythm, a groove that plays to the center.
Poem of the Week
Appearance does not really appear, but it appears to appear.
Poem of the Week
I live for now in the second house of having asked a favor from a friend.
Poetry
Oh they pay me well. I make a small fortune. Yes they pay me well.
Poetry
América, make me wings large enough to carry me back and forth.
Poetry
No one was awake and I was hungover young as clean as a piano.
Poem of the Week
The gravest season and least understood is more than pale heads
