A Few Delicate Needles

It’s so delicate, the light. And there’s so little of it. The dark is huge.

A Happy Birthday

I wanted to ride this day down into night, to smooth the unreadable page.

A Kind of Thinking and Other Poems

Life, then, was song and purple font, imagining in words a future.

A Life with Bears

I want to focus on bears. On knowing them, and on what they need.

A Matter of Appeal

Felicia knew why he was there. He was waiting. Waiting for her.

A Matter of Necessity

The survival of our world depends upon the cultivation of better language.

A Short Short Theory

Fiction, no matter how short or long, is the art form of human yearning.

A Small Blip on an Eternal Timeline

I grabbed him by the face and told him life only comes to a person once.

A Walkabout in Andrew Wyeth’s Painting and Other Poems

My bike, my skinny body, my pent breath was thrown to the grass.

A Winter Walk

After breakfast I set out to see what my wild neighbors have been up to.

A. Roolette? A. Roolette?

She remembers that golden ocean, the promise of a whole new land.

A. Roolette? A. Roolette?

She remembers that golden ocean, the promise of a whole new land.

Agents: The Business of Writing

Art touches the soul and moves life in ways that commerce cannot. E. L. Doctorow noted that writers seem to get business ideas almost right.


I’m mourning in the armpits of a lover we once called a family friend.


If everyone’s lost on the roads, you might as well fly. Enjoy your life.

An Old Sidewalk

For sixty or maybe seventy years this sidewalk has been lying here.

Anemoia and Other Poems

I want to cut loose from her each wistful sigh I hear escape her lips.

Annunciation of the Self-Enclosed God

It’s another thing to have the beloved hesitate, silent, on the porch.

Around Us

We need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly as a plane’s wing.

Arpeggio Progression in Missing Key and Other Poems

do you asks pretty sue know what I love what pretty please tell us


The first time we love, how tight we hang on to keep from drowning.

Arthur Arellano

The pillow into which her face was turned muffled her voice.

As Is

When she sleeps, Shakespeare writes one more sonnet we’ll never read.

At Cape Henlopen

We walk in light so steep I can see each single stitch of your sweater.


We imagined the train routes through the heart of the country.

Barbie Chang Poems

Some days Barbie Chang wants to hang up her Asian boots.

Barbie Chang’s Daughter Asks

Barbie Chang asks why the evil one always has black hair.

Beautiful Daughters

I hate it here, but I’ll make the best of it, because that’s what mothers do.


Am I here without me just as I was before when stars spoke.

Best Advice

Getting answers is easy. The difficult thing is knowing the right questions.