shielded from torrential downpour I count each privilege
in the rain the mailman with the bad knee runs up our
stairs to deliver corporate marketing I sit in my
comfort watching heavy mist float float off the parked
cars and wonder as the sidewalk’s sea level
rises is this a flash flood? then it lets up when it
resumes intensity I wonder if this is hurricane weather
this is Pittsburgh this is no hurricane though Laura
makes her journey up the Gulf Coast another storm in
a sky of storms I observe seemingly unlimited
(originally published in Poetica, Spring 2024)
pennsylvania
77 / Hallway
I look for the endless
tunnel highway of light
if I see the golden
triangle pointing east
painting the far wall
spilling into another bucket
you are close enough to okay
(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Fall 2024)
On a Dark Street
I have been that guy
sitting in his car on a dark
street headlights off in
the company of siren
cicadas during a festival
down the street its residents
wanting sleep I have been
that hungry that listless
that finished within porch
light of someone else’s home
while people who look
like your past
walk on by
(originally published in The Kolkata Arts Blog, Summer 2024)
Outdoor Towels
When I can’t sleep– after
lifetimes pass me by
(embers of 16-bit reflections.
Silken stars, the spider
lights that moved between)
you refuse the lake
when the lake refused
you, but I find a stack
of outdoor towels,
and I can’t stop
using the phrase.
Can’t start a fire
without seeds blowing
over tall weeds into
mouths of rubber
band bullfrogs (among
ones with sounds a larynx
can’t replicate).
Tomorrow calls for
rain. No one said
you couldn’t leave
the pond until the
bugs did what they
do best: bug you
enough to drag you
out of the water,
your feet enough
in the grass
to walk tonight.
(originally published in Piker Press, Fall 2024)
The Inflatable Exhibition
Maybe the installation was overrated–
the advertisements got us, inflated
the necessity of PVC in the center
of the city. It is August and I wanted
to see you for who you were and you
let me. Our shoes were off and
in the green shining light we were
vibrant. In the red we could not tell
each other apart from the screaming
strangers’ children, as indistinct
as silhouettes, palettes upon which
we draw the lines we see ahead; the vents
streaming air; the eighteen rooms we lost
ourselves in but not the sense of time,
which was kind of the point:
already we are labyrinths
so why pay to see
ourselves out? Not that we could
even. Had to find a blue GUIDE to point
us slightly in the direction of exodus,
another tube to lead us into the open
patio with the mobile bar selling
orange crush and cucumber vodka
with twenty other people seeking
air, or at least a chair
to sit, in which I am
wondering how close to sit
beside you? The answer
in the atoms wobbling between
us, the slight tilting of light.
(originally published in The Seraphic Review, Fall 2023)
Industry Burnout
I am not this negative.
I look at Post-It note
days and see a march
of white beneath, my life
before me on corkboards,
dilapidated. I used
to joke easily in this junk-
yard, chasing wayward
clouds in the sunset,
in awe of our city’s
little skyscrapers
over shards of broken
bottles on asphalt.
And you’d join me,
too, running across
the parking lot,
the cars rolling
over blue bridge,
roaring, as we
were under it
at the mercy
of an aged
but comforting
infrastructure.
I don’t know
if I have changed,
or if the world
is wearier, how
I don’t even
look for the
weather when
I open
the door
to leave.
(originally published in A God You Believed In, Fall 2023)
The Way Out
Lilly asks as we leave
the Highland Park pool
do you need
a dinosaur figurine?
I look at the lost
and found table
she points to, and
I make mental dots
for sprawling trinkets
that must have meant
something to someone,
once, trying to determine
what she means by dinosaur–
is it the green color shining
off plastic rings? The fake
bird feathers? She points
again and this time I follow
to a rubber Tyrannosaur, no
ambiguity, Yes, my cat died
this morning. Yes, right after
the break-up. Because I fit what
doesn’t make sense into butterflies,
love, and the stillness around me.
You ask, can you envision
our future together? I see it
in our palms: a tree with a million
branches, and on the other
hand, a tree with a billion
branches, and on another,
a tree full of open hands.
(originally published in Dandelion Scribes, Spring 2025)
Bottle
corkscrew splits when prying loose
coppola‘s aged cabernet sauvignon
you once opened a bottle in a hotel
with a flatiron i bring down a steamer
the bottle perspires with no release my cat
nearly walks into the heat i’m thankful you are
present my spine so soft can’t keep anyone
safe best not dwell my memories
are triglycerides clinging the tender
parts of brain we go downhill to rite-aid
we’re told it’s barren look elsewhere
a beer store closing the clerk in desperate
gasp seeks three screws he can use
to make a tool makeshift but alas
the shoe method works he says take
your boot pound with force try
as we might against my home’s brick no
way to get how we feel into the open
(originally published in RUNDELANIA, Fall 2024)
Stressful Music
The repetitive techno at Trace
squelches and invades my ears
I am just trying to drink
coffee and move on with
my life in an aesthetically-
pleasing way with green
plaid and rough jeans
but flies swirl
around my head and
I can’t stop thinking
of you starting your
new job at the hospital
and all I want is to hold
your hand again with
the fingers currently
pressing up against
the dust of keyboard
and the history of
my heart plugged
into the wall where
ghosts walk through
all hours and stay
in the dark until
the mud begins
to dry at the crust
of my shoes
in the warm
mornings
(originally published in Disturb the Universe, Summer 2025)
A Light Snow Through the Window
Out of all activities
to do in the world,
we choose to watch
what melts. The sugar-
frosted grass, low hills, love
of our red-brick building.
If our conversations
are jet streams, if high-
altitude, high stakes,
tension– let me
please leave and be
reborn as something cold
and forgettable.
What dinosaur wanted
to become a fossil?
In our years together
we accumulated enough
to burrow deep into
the earth. Millions
of years from now,
what some sentience
will discover is that
we were once separate.
(originally published in The Field Guide, Fall 2023)