OF NOTESlisten to this poem
More like autumn than autumn is.
Settling gravel and moonlight, and a campfire
feels its way into the dark.
They used to burn coffee to cloak
the scent of death.
One little two little three little.
Bike racks. Fire hydrants. And all the little boys
unwatched after school.
The skeletal remains of a rat, a red-eared slider-
a young child with a cape
tied round his neck.
Loneliness is solitude
with a problem.
OF VICESlisten to this poem
Through our ears we perceive the world
My son-my son, my god:
I don’t think I’ll ever make a more egg-like figure
When I define the self I define two people touching,
one person leaving
An overflowing river, hence, a rapid flood
Two people touching: I can’t look at them
both at the same time
What is meditation
How is the divine
and what can I do about it
Ripe cherries on a Michigan cherry tree,
a coat hanger on the bathroom floor
in the dark under my foot under my breath
I cuss and I cuss and I hear myself
I see myself in the mirror cussing,
in the kitchen cooking quiche or
pitting fresh cherries or teaching my daughter
to peel the perfect orange
Once, I dreamt a suburb