some nights the moon is a train

it takes me a while

to love things.


but then i am

loyally locked in.


the colonial blue

house holds the


key, but no door.

in the back-ground,


the long bow of the

cello sings up from


the depths. one floor up,

children grow in their


beds. dad used to tease

about putting us in a vice


overnight. i took his words

to heart: the dreams that


shortened me still follow—

strong shadows of


nails and hair; of things

that once lived, fighting


to weave them-selves

back in, back to life.


some nights the moon

is a train. i am boarding


her, i am carrying

alstroemerias, i am


smiling as the tiny

gear of a whisper


turns. the shrieking,

pulsing, turning to


blood is all in my

head; out-side, the


view is silent: a giant

wheel of compliance.





last day of the verb


let’s go out to the country,
get away from the city lights;

sing the song of the mountains,
walk under the satellites;

feel the moon filling, ever-
molting in our sights;

drink up the fog fugue
like a hungry child might;

and remember how the moon would follow us home,
send us lost-dream signals only we could know.

20140909_223210 (1)


now shows up,
listening hard:
conducting dark orange irony,
shrinking vex.

ebullient he is —

giving her the muse, the beautiful,
the beautiful colors.

lifting she is to the torch of his touch,
like a whisper about to expire —

we are all about to expire.

now shows up,
listening hard:
conducting shadow symmetry,
shrinking hex.

he wants her to know
what it is she
wants —

and further-

to howl for it.


the passing of pax romana

she sits in her space and feels a stirring,

much like the wind, much like a calling

to another place not yet

known, not yet her own:

her fingers buzz with forbidden

magic; her mind moves mountains.

the invisible warrings

of love write themselves

quietly on the back-side

of her heart-quilt, sewn in

tight like jewels, like journals

coming alive on the inside linings

of her organs, playing out

their orange chicanery.

just outside the monastery

of her own making, she

gazes at her mother repeatedly

riding in on the tide, her spirit

slipping into her shell sides;

she holds the best close

to her core and lets

the rest follow back

with the moon.

the first writer




is harder to

carry than





in this house of

scales, full of too-


quiet wails and

padded wishes


misfiring into

the insidious.


the pick-ax of love swings


in all directions

in a mother tongue


heard but never

deeply known,


a script we spend our 

days rewriting for the





what then shall we die for?


four faces, pieces of

time slowly woven:


one pyramid eye,

a god voice —


a medium, a mode,

a median, a muse —


a walk down a broken path


under the cedars,

under the stars,


the fist of a moon;

this fist in my pocket,


in my heart,