Poetry

Old men sing themselves to sunstroke in idling vans, their grown children inside buying out of season vegetables. We treat our youth like succulents on blistered windowsills, the memory of sustenance  enough for us. We keep flattening the dust, the way a highway grinds the shade to pulp, a longitude…

Iris The calico’s eyes bloom blue-yellow in the window sill, alchemical gold. Sunflower Towering over wired archways, these guardians of hoop houses offer their bodies for butter, oil, lotion, birdfeed, or biodiesel. Poppy Armistice & remembrance, women who caught whiffs of independence in a San Franciscan back alley way. Morning…

I have just enough of instinct left to know these signs of rain: an insect too routine for memory flits sideways; a squirrel reports his body’s arc into the greasy breeze between a low stone wall and a shade tree. The dish-pale sink of sky sucks out a lottery of…

I try and exit           quick the body my lips move like moths           at the center of the apple from the center           of the orchard a blue diamond reflects my startled grin        …