Sometimes you feel

Two feet into the brush
the parking lot forgotten
yellow to green to red to brown
tangled roots peeking through snow
cracked ice bending along the creek bed
nothing reminding of no one
just some birds squawking
and an errant squirrel looking for a nut.
Here I am.


Almost lost for good

The taste of stamp adhesive.
A reason to write. Home.
The few minutes of awareness
of being 16 and touched but not breached.
Furtive glances waiting for the next teller.
A debut Saturday morning cartoon.
Star Spangled Banner at midnight.
The thrill of sealing Tupperware.
Imagining space travel while walking
on a lonesome gravel road.
A simple moon. No labels.
Smoke without the killing.
Shiny shop windows.
A great escape from suits.
Caravans of gypsy music at twilight.
Straightforward narrative hijacked.

Watch the Wonder Wheel

My crackers are delicate
and I have no reputation.
The same dance steps haunt
all my grey Saturdays
and I worry I’ll only be remembered
for cheese and moss.

I try to unhunch my shoulders
so as not to be his echo
but walking is difficult
with bosoms like televisions.

Watch the wonder wheel
with its terrible grace.


A sound of groaning ice
and my own breath,
both heaving along
a line of demarcation-
an exchange
of fretting for field.

Potato Eaters

We keep gathering
in circles, facing dishes with spoons
and we shuffle our potatoes
back and forth as we sort
memories of long days with short words.

Our work is never finished.
We are light tinged with soil.

Grasping a stone
built for eating makes the grim
dinner by the window
seem a divine intervention.

We taste of underdeveloped joy.