‘a spring wind blew my list of things to do away’

you were blowing out cake candles

with your red lips;

you were too young for us to know,

too red.

it was not a photograph dad would have

displayed: it was stuck in a book in a drawer

in a year.  and now, so many thousands of

days later, i’m sitting in a car crying,

listening to the world turning, my child walking

away, the houses foreclosing.



Title from Greg Brown’s song “Spring Wind”


hands on

god is not one of us;

god is all of us.


if we could put our

hands on


the whole world,

we would feel it—


the story of

the story of the


spiral pearly gate

opening and leading


us up and out of our

self-preserved caves,


around and around in

remembrance circles until


we could not do even one thing

without love.




i’m just warming up,

and so is the day;


sometimes it takes a

few hours.


when you can love something at its coldest


then you can say

it is real.


anyone can fall in love

on a sloppy summer night;


but where are you in the arctic light of morning?

tunnels and tunnels

my body is one long bone

in need of being cracked.


(will this this be the last?)


they say when you dream of houses

you are dreaming of your selves;


i keep dreaming of forgotten rooms,

hidden realms, my parent’s walk-in


closet, split-level bedrooms splayed out

like shelves of lovers coming forward


to read me the sonnets of my sins.


so delicately thin, this line of what was

and what is to come—


we are all so old;

we are all so young:


tunnels and tunnels

through which to run.