More on: Poetry

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.

Joyous and broken, we stared at our hands, folded, strangely unable to pray.

There are two ways to marry: right and wrong.

They know the rules, and how to play the game. Their calculations yield a tidy sum.

Could she be leaning forward after faith, leaner for the habit of not looking, promised to the long, dry
braid of disincentive with incentive.

I get lost easily, even now.