In the grass, at the top of a steep hill
off Route 28, a viola lays in open case.
Panes rattle from the wind, cold
shivers up and down the spine
of the landscape, a cartography
lacking names of streets I know
I walk each day without
any kind of passion.
(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Spring 2020)
I took a photo of herons walking in Pioneer Park.
Followed them through grass to the St. Pete Pier,
sunrise blue reflecting forever upward. I thought
the road trip would last an eternity. I asked Tracy
if I could stay. Now I am in Pittsburgh, reflecting,
without yachts and breeze, just beside the living
room window. A gray-haired man drives by in
a silver Toyota Tacoma, heading to wherever.
In those days I followed everyone, every whim.
Tracy had other plans. These days I rarely drive,
and when I do it’s up a hill, over ice, or out of
hunger. The cool emptiness I used to carry
to bars, leather wallet bursting with receipts like
unkempt hair– I’d drink until finding purpose,
the familiar, unpaved road to drive on.
(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Spring 2022)
Counting one two three four the space
between the blank of thunder and sight
of lightning illuminating the blinds I know
I measure love in the proximity we sleep
together, warm on warm. The last one,
I couldn’t place myself all those three A.M.
hours, humming nights of acid rain, bones
on the window tapping on the wind. Bone
to bone I’m wrapped inside you solid.
Water to water there’s a lake waiting
to wash over this black bed, two
bodies to be separated. What we have is
distance– right now we don’t have that.
(originally published in Ariel Chart, Winter 2021)
unsure
of the horizon:
dusk-dried grapes, wine
flowing over cold shores.
Perhaps we trust fall:
bodies unsure of gravity,
landing in arms
constructed mirrors.
Dawn’s waking
is the rite–
summer turns
so restless in sleep.
(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Summer 2020)
every sentence can rebirth
a hundred times correction
fluid applied to my tongue
I gag paint thinner thinker
emotions, I’d say what
a wondrous gift, a paperclip
glinting in fluorescent sun,
how endless sky turns fake
the longer I stay inside
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Winter 2022)