Her second moon riseshumble and steadfast, splendidin morning rapture,sure of itself as I am of us. As children possess the sun,this moon belongs to her waxing beauty,the luster of her eyes,to her softness which tenders ablution. Her magnificence, a meadowlark.

A spring wind buildsand snow cedes it’s paltry warmthfrom street corners and housesto those which need it now. Birds return fitful of songand green pushes deftlythrough thawing dirtas couples sip coffee from cozy chairswatching through windowsthe slow tide of springenter their lives again,talking of booksand each other. But love does not migrate;it only comes, or…

I want you to knowone thing.-Pablo Neruda I want you to know at leastseven things then a million moreuntil you effervesce with inquiryand insightquaking in a peach soft moon,the chattering of delicate birdsrippling from you through my mind,small birds calling out, circling each otherthrough the night. An aged tree pruned,ruined or saved,with each mincing cut,from…

TomorrowI will bend and swaydelicately in the dayspring waveslike the susurration of aspensuntil I breakthis yoke of grief, myself,or the soul of the songbird,ignorant, diaphanous,beautiful. Always tomorrow.

I’m better off writing this poem tomorrow during the solstice when days are balanced like the teenage June I spent driving through the same swarm of gnats that congregate over dirt roads to nowhere, past the same herd of deer, so tranquil and ever present I assumed they were dead, stuffed and set out for…

It’s impolite to begin a poem with an expletive I. “Fuck you lost,” was all he said, at first. Not that he said much more later, but it is what he opened with. The “fuck” was not in anger or distress, it was maybe a conjunctive adverb, the Montana “consequently.” It was spoken as rare…

A wind chime plays for me nightly. Only for me and my dog who rummages about the yard silently, sniffing and biting at the snow. It’s my neighbors chime, but it’s solely mine after dark. I don’t know them, inside their house which is close enough to spit upon, but their chime hangs above their…

“How do ticks,” I think, “know how to find me?” As I watch three amber drops of blood cross the moonscape of grass and gravel towards my backpack, the scent of me, or aura, attracting their cause. I can’t imagine pulling that much barbed wire that divides the wilderness into sirloins and porterhouse like a…

I. My father never taught me, he was too busy being a good father or a good engineer. I flail, land, and intertwine transparent line, but the fish know my ruse. They laugh.   II. I’m casting by moonlight fluidly but something is different: a change in the stars, perhaps, or a new nightingale coo.…

During a brief and passionate argument with a robot he threw my favorite potted plant out of our spaceship’s cockpit window. The depressurization sucked me out, like the pearl from an oyster, and the robot never laughed again. He had never laughed in the first place, but then, neither had the plant.