when Gracie rubs her cheek in dried dog poop I can never tell if it’s Christian Dior or some cheap gaudy knock off don’t know whether...

dug in with fingernails unable to crawl back to my 50’s losing the rear view of my 40’s looking down I see a murky future straight up...

these lips would nibble sunlight if not for chicken pot pies or suckle my good memories but for perfectly ripe avocados I’d drink a fresh...

a quick kiss with shoulders touching the old couple sits front row on a wire facing the walk bridge humans and their noisy busyness...

every afternoon long shadows, longer each day as winter stretches

is carved by the flashing knives of a sunlit waterfall slicing my awareness into sleepy pieces as I sit in the shade eyes flutter a head...

it’s the season of spitting rain that kicks a little dust off some parched letters or a brief shower that sizzles hitting a standalone...

down to bare bones in winter a maple takes no reservations for shade nor should you with love for a spring bound in buds a tree waits for...

love drives home the knife the shaft straight into your heart pull the blade you die

pink western mountain a rose rises in the east thorns soon to follow

the scarred gold and black cylinder lies in the curbside gravel in front of his house glints in the morning sun flashes a message every...

down the splintered mountain across dewy fields of diamonds mist parting with her big behind I rush to dress and stub a toe which reminds...

the gods never answer they’re not interested in any of your concerns which are neither owned nor for sale not the peace or stillness you...

one evening the enigma with empathy another night the light bulb miserable with its wattage or in a clear-sky moment the wise one...

certainly in this world time steals everything looks life love affairs family friendships though I’ve always wondered if by another...

talon blood licked clean preened and oiled flight feathers the dove’s down mustache

though words always come and go they do prostrate when Silence passes everything owes their existence to that mystery

today the sun erupted at dawn molten orange tongue in a sneer of bloodred clouds she spits her guts at a fading night burns holes in the...

thank you for paramedics and peas the lives of beds crows in sycamores the scent of baby’s hair scraps of night in moonlight plum leaves...

I know why you hold then so much and so closely to fill them with the sap that oozes from smiles and whispers from touches and warm...