Category: Poetry

This cold summer, that started with such promise, is ripe with metaphors; I reach out my open hand and they fall into my palm. The possums Have given up waiting For the tomatoes to ripen And are just eating them: Green and bitter, but still tomatoes. I can’t speak to your silence. March 2021

I’m developing a kink for Thin old men in grey cardigans Who lean on country fences And watch the wind. Not the gaunt of ill mind or waning body. Not the narrow of a too-small mouth and a too-big religion. But the shape of someone easily distracted By words, or birds, or maps, or pebbles.… Continue reading Kinked in broad daylight →

Is everything shit? Sometimes I think everything's shit. Do you want me to fuq off? Sometimes I think you want me to fuq off. Should I stop breathing? Sometimes I think I should stop breathing.

There's a great and beautiful cedar outside my door

My arms ache and my heart. Still I sit and make coffee for three