More on: Poetry

All I can do now is recount their appearance: simple swamp white oak leaves.

In the virgin’s garden a ladder is kept for angels to step up & down.

Growing old is a form of gloating decay where your deepest lines are written by laughter and gravity.

I wonder sometimes if these words are like the golden calf: molten, as in a flame, and shaped by doubt.

It’s three a.m., that empty hour
when gangs of theologians prowl the streets looking for some stray angel to accost.

What angel will descend this night, will light this wire-strung alley to draw the fallen upward?

I love you. That human line of language, three syllables and eight letters with two spaces in between.

Today I am going to try not knowing, learn little and get nothing out of it.

Every time my father dies, I write a poem.

You are alone naked in a forest, surrounded. Alone, surrounded by a live ossuary of trees, shed twig, spell of oval stone.