I cannot hold
the weight of
my own heart. Grey
metal. Heavy chalice.
At last, the hands
let go.


Carried Away

The old, healthy mouse
will die in its burrow;
the poisoned one in the middle
of the living room floor.
Losing its struggle against
entropy, its furry molecules
pulled & separate before
a year's worth of ants
and spiders carry it away.



Though this place
is said to be healthy,
all I can see are its bones,
flashes of light through its holes,
a sad, white skeleton.

There are days when
I want to pluck my eyes out,
dream in blindness, see
what is missing before
I forget or deny it.

In the background,
there is always
a vanishing point,
as if heaven and hell
share the same plane.

As if life & death
are co-existing.



This is where
the beginning
meets after.

Here, in the throes
of gravity and flight,
our feathers fall,

the body lost
on its path to God.

We are all walking
slower now, crawling
lower to the ground,

hardly making
a shadow; one hand
held over the heart,

as if bidding farewell.


The Wakening

Morning's eye is opening. Yellow,
the color of light; its mouth
a glass of water as it fills.
Secret, stolen kisses from
the drowsy sleepers.


The Properties of Lovers

Two shadows merge, obliterate
the light. Melds one into the other
like water from a spout. They meet,
tenuous as the lower lip folding
against the upper, rain sliding
down glass or thorns through flesh.


Your enemies heel tight against
the neck; you are the one who shows
the most fear. Half of life and
half of death, your long hair caught
between the branches. I don't know
what to call your spirit; when I hold it
in my hand it crumbles, when I toss
it in the air it disappears. And
always returns to she who threw it.


Owning It

I own the moth as moth
owns flame. Its furry body
lit on fire; its small head
quivering, no signs of pain.
And so, the next with flecks
of ash, leaps faster, no wiser
than its smoldering carbon copy.

The Stick

There is no wrong end of a stick,
both ends are useful. Nature is wiser
than that. Better to curse you own
head and feet, your spoon and fork.

At sunset, even the horizon bleeds
from each of its sides. The top of
your heart pushes out fluid, the bottom
takes it in. And then there's the matter

of heaven or hell, the sky and earth,
goodness and evil, the ego and soul.
Of this I'm sure: Life isn't a highway
but its always a trip to somewhere.

The Life of Leaves

The winds may sigh
but the trees lament
every fallen leaf.

The snow-stained leaves
are tethered to the ground
like cake-icing.

The winds are cold and strong,
the leaves are traveling
as if they live again.

Midwest Haiku

Day after day
she was reminded
of peas and corn.

From the Shell

I was born alone, on the beach,
in a shell. Or so I'd like to think.
In the mist, there is water. On a clear
day, there is water. Sometimes there
are baby sharks feeding at the shore.
Shiny plastic-brown seals whose faces
are never surprised or disrupted. The surly
cries of gulls fighting amongst themselves.
Then, there is the sound of sand rubbing
against itself, the same sound an infant
body makes when emerging from its mother.