A Center

If others call you a maniac or a fool, just let them wag their tongues.

A Dagger of Sunlight Lies across His Bed

He sits hiked up, naked to the waist, like a stone in the bedclothes.

A Few Delicate Needles

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

A Good Woman Blues

You will be a broke blues man with only some story of how you were.

A Happy Birthday

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

A New Year’s Gift

He ended every year in this manner, writing and dreaming.

A Real Nice Baby and Other Poems

Royal baby George is tucked in the crook of his mother’s elbow.

A Small Hotel

The allure of Mardi Gras is to feel this way: unseen and unseeable.

A Son of Baghdad

For me, Selweh was the real magic. She was nothing like my mother.

A Spinster’s Tale

When he had passed from view, I stumbled back from the window.

A Theory and Other Poems

I have, in the long solitude of my body, asked for something else.

A Walkabout in Andrew Wyeth’s Painting and Other Poems

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

A Wedding Story

The chocolate was old, dusty white, the way chocolate gets after many years.


However hard you try to make amends, they will still condemn you.


Death is a lack, I suppose, and love more so. But I will not falter.


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

All My Friends Are Sad & Bright

We’ve seen the news. We know the story. How even our bodies hurt us.

All on My Own I’m Happy

I’m happy in the unmapped landscape inside the bottle.

All Possible Pain

My relationship with god resembled that of a prisoner and firing squad.

All the Wrecks I’ve Crawled Out Of

I was thinking sex, she was thinking sex, but neither of us made a move.

An Abstract of My Research

For one hundred years I followed old people to learn what I was in for.

An Hour Ago

In the morning light, I could hear Bashō hard at work.

An Instance of Love

We have harvested nothing more than the stench of middle age.

Animals & Instruments

His fingers traveling through these notes can assuage, I think, all pain.

Another Star

“Please, please, please,” she begged the class. “Please don’t do it.”


I tried mightily, but no longer could I ladle those ancient words into the air.

Arpeggio Progression in Missing Key and Other Poems

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

Ash Heap of History: June 9, 1982

There was a glint of cold red light out there, on the other shore of the lake.

At Sea

I only feel that here, only here, in this one place, a small rise.

At the Center of the Sailing World

Suddenly, all of the past seemed now like the same endless race.