Friday, September 30, 2016


Wake up, meditate: get nowhere but notice a few finger tingles. Read poems, listen to Dolores breathing while the dog licks his dirty feet. The baby sleeping restless in the next room, which means he'll wake soon. A few houses away the wind bangs hard against some porch, and I hear clanging.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

These Roots

You Are Little

So swim me a river. I stand working at the edge of your bag. Your hair is my last resort, where I walk the beach with my little umbrella. Drink me, but forget me. The qualifier is the feeling that something is always missing. I give advice to myself but never take it. That’s how I keep myself crazy. Joy is a grasshopper. Now the meandering edge of the world. Quiet. Quiet, you little muse.