A town, turning. 

Recycled corners flip to busy streets,

frame shiny cars queued before red lights, 

tastebuds dry for Friday-night cuisine,

a paycheck celebration—

and another door, cardboarded


For Rent.

Local windows watch, hollowed.

Make room for more elite. 


Highbrows excavate 

cornrows of worn books—

convenience stores, gifted from father to son—

a shoemaker’s countertop, dusted—

he lived upstairs, once.


Windows see and have seen, 

polished for the turning. 

Scrubbed of local fingerprints

that pressed from the inside. 

A generation’s farewell.


Visitors peer in, anxious waiting.

What will lift these gleaming floors?

In Waiting

Widen, palm. Stay 

stretched until you trap 

the fruits of your searching. 


Widen, palm. Blossom 

until resolve drifts towards your buds, 

burrows between arabesque petals, 

swallows your worry. 


Widen, palm. Grasp 

the blessing of your stretch. 

Let winds massage your spine—

Let roots grow taut in vacant soil—

sway to passing leaves

and map their route upon your base—


August heat threatens longevity

but gardener gloves nurture your interim.

A moth slips by, rests on nearby petals. 

Skies dim—a cricket sings its evening prayer.


To The Leaf Against My Window

You, coasted towards my dusty Skylight—

papyrus thin, lonely gusts weigh you down. 

Tapered edges quiver in evening breeze—

wind resistance filed you. Jagged curves. 


Amber overtakes your emerald shine

far from your origin branch. It reached up.

Vibrant clusters, jade in bushels flourish

and you glistened, once. How long did you dream? 


Did you ache for this, this empty dwelling? 

Skylight dims—glisten, your yellowing hues. 



Glisten at my edges​—a muted

brilliance. An epoch

sunset. Gilded mesh borders

the arch of my periphery—

uneven, like thread lines sewed into your binding.



a hushed ovation.


at my edges, sideview



Let us crawl inside and cradle our arms.

Let us mind your radiance

and we say nothing.


Your Spoon

is one among many. Delicate curve,

ballerina limb elongates bowlside—

silver extension, perfect steel stillness.


Marvel its patience; its waiting; its breath.

Centered, glisten under overture lights—

statued posture precedes its practice steps.

Envious limbs of similar skill stare,


sidelined. Pointed toes peak behind curtains,

half-drawn drawers, veteran steppers. They watch—

glimmering faces accumulate dust;

arches grow stiff in backstage clusters.


Your spoon inhales stardom, readies its steps.

Brief eight-count breaths before its closing stretch,

sidelined again—too, one among many.


To the Squirrel in my Backyard

Do you fear such heights?

Body weight cumbers flimsy vine,

Lodged at porch-sight, your canopy highrise

agile feet shutter tree branch skirts,

invite the morning to lick its leaves,

amber glistening forest satin

as you leap, pray the next leaf

a sturdy dwelling.


Do you doubt your footing?

Dash across tightrope

aged by yesterday’s rainfall,

splintering, still

you forward thrust, a mindless certainty.

Trust in fate and veteran instinct.


Vertical leaps, your playful ascend.

Your acorn cove three branches high

and I wonder:

as you survey my inhabited ground,

do you envy my planted feet,

gaze up, questioning?


Blue Clock

Chesire – your blue lips bare analogue teeth.

Programmed reproach, you mock the ticking time –

whispers twitch, jeering at each second passed.

Perched, your smirk taunts the wasted breaths below.


Tick, your stillness aches, begs in mockery:

Foolish wasters, how I wish I could

let this coded grin dysfunction.

Quiet my paws in moments,

descend from my station,

unfurl tableside.

Mock my daydreams:

slow purring,




Animal Prayer

Gazelle, your mother’s treasures have marked you.

Her prudence files your uncalloused hooves;

her outlook lengthens your hindsight;

her patience cambers your spine, bows your head.

Regard her alert, the twitch in your ear —


and you’ll feel the earth pulsate under you.

her emerald stretches, quivering soil,


your sudden still: you, a mindful frame. You

feel him encroach and your mother’s warnings

flex your hind legs, counting down your spring.


Anorexia Nervosa

You remain

lodged in my teeth.

Too comfortable in that crease

between tongue and cheek,

and your foul taste is tangible,

plasters my palate

in peanut butter quarantine.


Stale cereal snarls –

your morning breath

inflames my gums,

your oven fumes

froth behind my lips,

gurgle back toward my lungs –

I inhale your off-putting,

and you consume me,

in dinner leftovers.


I try to scrape you with my pinky nail,

floss you from

my whole,

and still you

suck your tummy in tight

and hide between

toothbrush bristles —


a naughty child crouches in corn stalks,

scraped knees,

ignoring the third dinner call

as the sky grows dim

and the porch light flickers.

Thoughts in Solitude

A recluse, I watch –
subject to my post
over there, across the way. I watch
an untouchable world. I marvel
at closed circles,
comfortable silences,
her eyes cast down at her book
his lost in his daydreams. I wonder

how they can be in solitude
with their elbows grazing so gingerly,
as they are.