Poetry

on trees on fence posts on telephone timber / at the entrance to access roads / because admit it // you are scheming right now this very / as these words gather and guide Continue reading→

I’m an acolyte of the corn fields. Baby, if you fall in love / with me, you will have to convert. My family only knows Continue reading→

They materialize at dusk at the edges / of driveways and sidewalks, in the middle / of the quiet dead-end, hands asway, / intermittent wipers desperate to clear / clouding swarms of gnats. Continue reading→

hometowns have thousands of little ghosts / that do not stay in the cemetery. they are / pushing up through the renovated sidewalk, / catching you between the cracks. Continue reading→

Eleven years ago today, at four-thirty / in the afternoon, just eighteen months / after I buried my son, I shuttered the house / my father built and drove my mother / back East, the veil over her lungs Continue reading→

The desiccate syllable / solo and trashblown / against a chain link / fence. The sky occasioning / itself impossible and blue / above us. So it’s come / to this? Is it what it is? Continue reading→