No Apples, No Clover, No Hay, No Grass, No Carrots, No Maize, No Alfalfa, No Linseed, No Deep Bag of Oats

Just sugar cubes and a crop for you. Salt licks to smart the tongue.

No Final Curtain

Your jumps are numbered. It is better to be a bird without altitude.

No Pain So Great as Memory

I’ll leave a trail of crumbs as I descend into god knows where.

Not All of Us Get to Be Ghosts

Standing there in our small shadows, we discuss the ways of the dead.


The Village wasn’t really a village. No walnut trees. Just cut flowers.

Ode to What I Do Not Know

Two animals, doe-eyed, slick across the road into the femur of the night.

Of God and His Enemies

Logic is such an elegant weapon; and religion, such an easy target.

Of Marriage, of Glass Gardens

Once upon a time, a couple wandered in a glass forest, hand in hand.

One Such as This

Later in the pale of dawn your hair brushed across my forearm.

One-Man Show

Only When

As a shadow I arouse you will you believe the truth of my mouth.


The fog’s sheen is a mirror: my mother sees the terrain of the future—

Pia Outloud

Picnic Point

The fish’s eye is mangled, tugged inward; blood leaks from its gills.

Poems from OBIT

Death is our common ancestor. It doesn’t care who we have dined with.

Praying Naked and Other Poems

Forgive me, please, for continuing to believe that roses are beautiful.


He folds on himself like a sheet kicked off the foot of a bed.

Python in a Grand Piano

Something basks and gathers in the dark parts of an open ear.

Reading Her Poetry

Better to be a bird without altitude. Or to get out of the game early.

Reading Her Poetry

I was once a rider of mastodons, a waitress showing skin.

Reading His Poetry

Our crowns are made of dead hair and get swept out with the trash.

Reading Rilke and Other Poems

The men here don’t know where to place me, call me exotic grail.


For a moment I had the delicious feeling of fitting in without even trying.

Reflections on How Writers Make a Living

Our culture cherishes a fantasy of a certain writerly existence.

Reflections on Newtown: No Safe Place

If it were fiction, calling the place Newtown would be too much.


Someone’s walk is pretty much who they are, from the beginning.

Reynolds Price

Running the Table

There was an intimacy to the sound that thrilled me.

Sad Little Outlaw

I was always being left behind in the mud, a bandage around my eyes.

Salt Lick

Salt lick inquest skill-step stalks. All flit, vanish: footfall’s fault.