It Moves the Same

I could throw one of these rocks at the moon and watch it fall.


They wrapped him in bandages from all three kits. The old man watched them.

Letter Spoken in Wind

Your voice on the phone, a gesundt in dein keppel you blessed my head.

Meteor Shower and Other Poems

Before sunrise I counted nine meteors scratching the heavens.

New Year’s Day

I walk across the fields with only a few young cows for company.

New Year’s Weekend on the Hand Surgery Ward, Old Pilgrims’ Hospital, Naples, Italy

Ten years ago, when I was in college, my father divorced my mother and said he wanted me to become responsible for her. That is why I fled to Italy.

North to Natoma and Other Poems

It’s been months, and the fields are good for nothing but night talks.

On a Day That Is Cold

The birds have all flown to Mars for water and Crisco and red.


In the seventies a skier’s mettle was measured by the length of his skis.

Poem after Carlos Drummond de Andrade

It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.

Reef Point

He got people on the conveyor belt that carried them up to heaven.

Returning to Church

Walking through the snow with her was enough, quiet enough.

Seneca Lake, Ohio

You put his hand around your throat but he keeps moving it away.

Shotgun Lovesongs

He was living like a coyote, out on the margins. But then a letter came.


Gravity bends together this planet and your life, made of glass.

Sitting In

The band was amateur at best. It didn’t matter. People loved them.


The owl was a white that could not be compromised by any other color.

The Atom Bowl

We didn’t give the order to drop the bomb. But thank God somebody did.

The Day Has Finished Waiting

The day holds a cup of milk and sits on the couch, legs tucked up.

The Gentleman from San Francisco

Until now the man had not really lived, but simply existed, to be sure.

The Sweater

I hold out hands, empty and poor like a beggar by the temple door.

Three Poems

Let’s walk down to the river, bless the paper boats and turn it all into wine.

Two Poems

It’s the roll-up-your-sleeves hour, when you have to make a living.

Two Poems

The coverage of the state funeral, black horse bearing an empty saddle.

Two Poems

I never felt heart stop or skin burn, just the first split second of sound.

Two Poems

My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.

Ulysses Recapitulates and Other Poems

We might have seen it coming, had we not had our eyes fixed on it.

Weak Winter Sun

I have been enshrouded for months by the weak winter sun.

Whatever’s Left of Normal

Design a way to kill those rats, and do it now, Fiori, do it now.


The gravest season and least understood is more than pale heads