night, house and rain

there is another perfect little Eden
calling for you.

Let it bring you and your shoulders


white lace blots wet pavement,
gasoline rainbows and yellow reflections.
Nostalgic, almost
like overheating in bed.
I am sure the clouds appreciate this song.

It is stale at this point.

I watch the clock face
deepen its numbers.
All the desk is red in its shadow.

Everything else is white
or black.

It reminds me of a dream I had,
a man all white
in a room all black
hunched, sad, and turned away.
It frightened me almost awake when I reached for him.

I can barely hear the rain when I open my eyes.

And this
is night.

little Eden.


between two times

indigo blue is the color of the crayon
cursed for infiltrating our perfect
blue colored sky, complete with
one yellow sun and three black gulls.

Suddenly, I find it
wrapped around our suburbian home,
its square shape rising forward
in a full off white shadow

hiding the raw silver pins
that already burn when I cannot see=
after years of putting into the sky
the rest of what we don’t want.


Much like
White my face in the front of a spoon,
the window does not hide
White these familiar gray skies.
It’s a languid night;
White I cannot hear the bugs
except for some leftover static
White of a blood-sucking fly
in an ellipsoid
White upside-down kitchen.

Rain Dance

Yesterday we ran
into the rain

Just after the sun slipped
from us to light another part of the world.

Early December night
and Christmas lights
stick to my pants and your shirt

Little globes refracting lamps
like little earths
line the trees and our hair.

Finally the sky was darker than your eyes
which have crystals in them
once again
You could have been brighter than
even the morning sun.

waiting with the moon

seems an impossible destination
unless I draw my breath
someone will drive by
walk by,
or the birds will not shut up
in my head

white noise
crumbles on and on
dead leaves
were sucked into the radio
or crinkled up
in front of the tv dish

it looks like the moon
half dipped in shadows
and quarter caught in the sun
matches the drain-plug
in the bottom of my brain
after a long day

dark smoke sets on open fields
after the sun does
the fog reflects shadows
and dew won’t shine
I am a moth to a houselight
a fly to a headlight

patiently straining
for a mind on a pedestal
in my arms
set on the ground
and in the air
humming and spider’s silk

perfect taut blue sky
or smooth rocks and sand
no prisms, I sit
down waiting with the moon


Stars move slow-
ly netting
a vacant sky
diminishing moon
and lights litter
dew caught round
dark grass,
smell of ocean
and almost still
but not winter
how ears buzz
in absence of noise,
sounds of life
rose rushed to sleep
soon in
Earth’s palms
resting with
curved backs but
not our heads
Bright and calm-
ly spin with
gracious stars


What is it in the warm dark
that the wind must flag me down?
Dripping at the branchless mark
skittish limbs drag on wet ground
all because your voice was hot
my ears ring with shadow sounds,
meshing, they refuse to rot,
the water’s too clear to drown;
‘Til now I have never seen
the sky like grit or as brown
for plastered leaves could not preen
the sky apart from its noun.