More on: Poetry

“I must take them to the cobbler,
they’ve only got slightly
worn-down heels,”

How much better versed I’d be / with wings spun / from sap of grass

My married friends have houses and backyards.
I envy their space, their gardened privacy,
but not their mortgage.

I think you should not be afraid

Let’s be grateful for doorstops.

The father makes coffee, weary and quiet,
as the child tries to imitate his grief.

Your name is splashed across the sky at night, / like some kind of petty graffiti,

It’s the first death for each of them,
but the crash of sorrow into happiness

There is much trouble in the world
but no diminution of hope