the view from in here:

the curves, colors, corners—


forming the anchorage of

you. the angled wood running


down hallways, dreaming of

being trees in a time before


scarcity. she didn’t want to grow,

to move, to change; she knew:


something is wrong. she crept into

the wall and fashioned herself in-


to a knot: good for the slaying.

from beyond she is still saying:


throw me a line. it continues

to feed our gibbous infamy.



put me on a porch

like a plant and let

me soak up the sun.


put me back in the

pines like when we

were young and played


with parallel universes:

taking the arched elevator

to whichever floor we desired,


trying to catch the

leaves and the liars before

mom called us back.


what was that?


that was living. that

was real, and imagination,

together; both the


source, and the

destination. some-

times you want to go


back, and other times

you want to spin forward—

but really they are the


same parallel thing.


gallery of the unfinished

the miles move like the years;

the trees climb themselves.


when you go, the absence you leave

behind will not last long—the mutable


shapes fill in. if you want

something to last, say so.


the world takes care of itself,

but will also love you back.



burn all the money

you write me into existence with

those beautiful veined hands;


your phantom sweetness bleeding

through to greet-create me.


this world was made to be free,

to be met head-on with abandon:


rolling down a grassy hill, throwing

all your gold over a cliff into the sea.


do you hear me? all we need comes

from the earth; every-thing we eat:


grown up and out like what we know

in our roots to be the ancient


trees of self, of

abundant anti-greed.





she walks with flower

blossoms in her hair.


the wind put them there.


she follows a long line of

seeds trying to be trees.


she talks to the dogwood

opening its thousand little


mouths in front of her

house. she finally under-


stands what some one is


saying: look at me, talk to me, stop

what you are doing and see me;


go out of your way to go out of your

yard; there are more of us out there—


diverse kin across africa, iceland,

the rainforest, grand canyon.


dive in: nurture us, make room for us,

build your homes around us, and


we will do the same for you.

equinox girl

the dogwood never bloomed last year.

the weather was perfect—the kind you

can barely feel against your skin without


a wind; the type of temperate that makes you

lose a sense of where you end and it begins.

but the tree went straight to leaf; it chose to not


proudly flower its little cotton crowns that soften

and peel off and land soundlessly in your lap.

it was what she first saw; it was what drew her


to this house. and now, almost two years later,

she is waiting again to see if it will bloom;

she is waiting again to see what will be.

in this room for the living

in this room for the living,

this calico chirping


in the window, thinking

she is a red, red robin;


this lantern singing,

this green brush growing


her lush periwinkle comb,

grooming me into the next


branching under which i am

disarmed by the charms


of soft pine stories, gently

pressing their charges


against me as i walk,

walk, walk into dissolve.