Dropped signal

“We” have satellites

that can see inside my underwear drawer,

technology to witness

new galaxies being born,

and devices to record every waking thought,

but I cannot seem to find

my place and I do not think

I will be able to get away.


While the lawn beast hibernates

Winter blue swirls through branches,

empty but not brittle.

Wind makes a mark like a love bite on bark;

I tighten my scarf

watching steamy breath spread

across the windowpane,

like inkblots like dragons like icicles

almost ready to give way to hyacinth.

From point A to point B

Buses are favorite uncles,

out of date tweed, torn pocket protectors,

faint smell of disinfectant.

Trains are not real.

Subways are born to be porn stars,

yellow moans, pressed flesh,

bad stories that shouldn’t see light of day.

Airplanes are whimsical curses to God.

My feet are medieval,

errant, lost to fairies,

turning at a glimpse of enlightenment.

Let’s take the car.


The moon was a heavy drop of milk

in a creamy dark sky

and I sparkled, breaking free

of my cube, gloriously,

in a riot of color.

Of course, it was dark

so the moon made everything

glow like silver -or dead skin.

But oh, how the dance unfolded

beneath my feet! And my heart was full

of night, as night should always be:

forgiving, warm, dark, and open.

I like to bury my mouth

in my scarf so I can hum

with abandon

and whisper awful things

amid an unknowing public.