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His mother wasn’t there to meet him at his stop. She never was.

The moon it is red, and the stars are fled but all the sky is a-burning.

The cat was looking at me with an intelligent expression. It knew.

I could go in for some pie why the hell not, there’s so little time.

Sixty-year-old veins look like giant roots breaking through earth’s skin.

She looks down the street for Scott’s truck. He’s late but so is she.

I’m recalling his socks, the inked initials, the splashes of blood.

“Who is it?” Irina asked at the door. “Open up,” a voice commanded.

Arrows shot by the halt at the lame,
 Opinions come and go just the same.


My lust works like the tides pulling in reverse, controlled by a simple ballast.

Men are so delicate, must be given many portals. I try to be game.

The poem I can’t yet write saves itself for when it can’t be avoided.

For the president’s arrival they shot two dogs making love on the tarmac.

Arriving on earth’s paradise, wearing only light for their bodies.

But too much rain can translate anything to unspeakable.

Beyond her ampleness, he stands a small man vanquished.

With a hammer well aimed, try to destroy the whole with a single blow.

David Lee

She regarded the world calmly without the filter of her suffering.

If life was exchanged, who is to say it flowed one way?

“Leaving for war, Hayes wept. He didn’t just cry; he wept...”

Salt provokes, tenderizes. Your wounds, your dinner.

I wanted my love to be everywhere, then love began to bite through me.

Flesh is temporary, memory a tilting barn dismantled nail by nail.

On a morning in November words appeared at the end of my pen.

But we do despise beauty. We connect it with softness and immortality.

I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.

I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.

I found Lowell’s gun a long time ago. He’s not a genius at hiding things.

The urge to be a tiny bird upon a tiny limb, maybe a bridled titmouse.