If "truth is a fire," as Klimt scrawled on a sketch for his
painting Nuda Veritas, "and to speak truth means to shine and
to burn," then I'm a spent firework, blown-open, hollow, grime-
smeared and left ...Read More

I'm home. I'm not home. I'm on the road or
Off it, briefly. I've been out of place. I've been
Taking familiar walks. I like the boardwalk. I like
The swamp. I feel ill at ease. I feel fine.

...Read More

Do not fear.
The garden is yours
And it is yours to gather the fruits
And every flower of every kind,
And to set the high wall about it
And the closed gates.
The gates of your wall no ...Read More

There where the racecourse is
Delight makes all of the one mind
The riders upon the swift horses
The field that closes in behind.
We too had good attendance once,
Hearers, hearteners of the ...Read More

can be enough to make you look up
at the yellowed leaves of the apple tree, the few
that survived the rains and frost, shot
with late afternoon sun. They glow a deep
orange-gold against a blue so ...Read More

After Dale's sudden cancer,
his body wasting swiftly to death,
I didn't believe in love or beauty, or my ability to write poems.
And my grieving turned into a sequence of writing
little ...Read More