More on: Poetry

Eventually, all color

contracted into the tips of the cigarettes.
Small fires, big dreams, the business of spiders
and the bait slowly sinking.

I sat in synagogue Saturday morning staring up at the stained-glass
star above the bima, first through my left eye, then my right.

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