A Childhood in Four Acts

End of October, days recede quickly into night. Leaves fall in slow motion.

A Map to Now

I thought my body was mine until it a map anyone could use.

A Pot of Red Lentils

I want to remember us this way—sun streaming through the window.

Autumn Landscape

I lift my wine flask, drunk with rivers and hills.


People only see that side of him. He is still a boy, learning to be a man.

Existing Light

The leaves repeat my fall in choruses more ancient than my own.

First Law of Thermodynamics and Other Poems

I’d have guessed the winter this way, every bitter plum already singing.

Fish Hook

Lure, yes, you would know how to catch and clean such a thing.

Four Poems

This is the stupid math of loving another human being.


A spider drifted down so slowly from the ceiling on a silver thread.

Independence Day and Other Poems

The old-timer outside the guard station was knifing his own tires.

Memory of a Season

The current looked cold and brown. It would freeze soon—November.

Miss Harriet

I am going to relate to you the most lamentable love affair of my life.

Packing Out

The danger was my own carelessness, and now I was waist deep in it.

Prayer in Rain, Autumn Night

Show me your darkness, your nothing-to-see and everything to touch.

Reading His Poetry

I eat what’s in front of me, as all great men do. Some wouldn’t, but I do.

Reykjavík the Beautiful

She looks in the mirror above the sink, and her image makes eye contact.

Richard II

The website said November was a good time for appreciating bark.

Self-Care at the Playground

On the swings in the park, a woman sounds an off-key minor chord.

Six Poems

My shadow feels my company, my stepping as he steps.

Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint

If you are hidden treasure, mine, don’t let me lose what I have gained.

Three Poems

I love it—watching gray light bleed out over the makeshift bed on the floor.

To Autumn

Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.

War Widow

You smile into the phone static, the breath of your beloved.


This morning drifts of sand hissed along the shore like mist.

Writing in October

The slow-falling leaves contain the space of the story I’m pursuing.