what thread dropped after
the cicada passed
or what mist started
to build in the part
of the story where
your eyes blur and your
feet grow clammy on
the earth of fresh graves
at the end of the day there is little appetite for making music still we feel we must take a chance and ask who would make shoes that are so uncomfortable
red the dog barks at sunset clouds but not forever
(First published in Under the Basho.)
I can make myself anything but this octopus escape
(First published in Bones.)
so over the air
Sonnet
with false starts buzzing around my head what do I do do I recall one fly I cut in half with a glass while trying to trap and free it—then sculpt some little line to be stomped bloodless by the sound of boots on the ceiling—so do I then try to persist with this misty I and words like persist—but to speak plainly there is no window in which to speak plainly about a small flower past my boots that I wish could fly into colors that open a window into a land where I could lie…
but now I’m cut in half and half of me
may persist and maybe that I will fly
how do I hold this pen that winks
and becomes a tree trunk
what question would you have me ask
the mice in such a rush
when they start to talk about you
you’ll wish it were blossoms
with just a grain of sand to carve
but it won’t come to that
keep writing reviews of movies we haven’t seen in order to assemble to unbreakable script
depending on the red chair on the porch the downpour
(First published in Modern Haiku.)
imagine the day fine and the gremlin
in the intestine who shatters the desk
before the final exam to stay warm
through an unremarkable winter may
smile before the surprise final exam
other animals 