I don’t have a new perspective.
Snow thaws on sidewalk beside
uncollected garbage. Half the city
workers are in quarantine yet
there are boxes to be shipped
for Christmas or our mothers’
birthdays. I drove on dew
streets to buy you bagels–
but stopped at the sight of
a long line to retreat into
the O of your arms in my
mind. Please park
your car next to mine.
We will sit in our usual
distance and wait for spring.
(originally published in Dodging the Rain, Winter 2021)
write a waterfall eroding the sediment of past
words to drip off tongue burn in the crinkle
crackle of sandpaper rocks white walls you speak
against refuse to listen ears plugged with pink
plastic unsustainable their space your space
(originally published in Spinozablue, Fall 2022)
a crow
glances edge of
frame
the moment before
the boomerang
reverses
(originally published in Beatnik Cowboy, Winter 2021)
month close to death. not quite. i mean
lingering. sword in my throat sharpens.
no blood just ideas. look somehow
i’ll make it through & you will too.
sun a fluorescent hospital interior
bland & tasteless. every song out
of tune piano room. cold blanket
can’t hide the notes dark &
hovering outside the window
(originally published in OVERHEARD Lit, Winter 2022)
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)
lack of grass–
a poodle shits
on sidewalk
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Spring 2020)
I walk on redwoods,
mountains, paths
cutting into forest.
Outside the trees
I find endless fog–
the ocean, splintered wood.
The railroad has no destination here.
(originally published in The Literary Yard, Spring 2020)
I stir potatoes
in the pot
when you text.
A mashed tornado
of cheese,
milk, salt,
pepper.
The goop
spins
into sustenance
on a cold
spoon.
(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Spring 2020)
our laughter
snorts out
sunflowers
but pushing
glasses
up the bridge
of my nose
how you
animate
the room
keeps me
alive
(originally published in Jersey Devil Press, Winter 2022)
Naked at the lake between salamander bodies, I kiss
your face, handfuls of sunflower on my nipples.
With mountains behind me (to my surprise)
I have become a bouquet. Verdant hills
a family– a cheetah must hide in this wilderness.
I feel emerald eyes ogling me from somewhere
in space time– even in this reunion,
I want to be as naked as a cloudless sky,
as the eroded stone I stand on.
(originally published in The Sock Drawer, Fall 2020)