Thursday, April 15, 2010


I roll through the day like a trapezoid.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010


I army crawl
through halls,
passing below
the suppressive
of the workday.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010


A poem wakes up and looks for someone to write him,
but no one is there, so he goes back to sleep.

Friday, April 9, 2010

What Writing Used to Be

It used to be
I'd grab a pencil,
and bring the tip
against my forehead.

I'd pause
for just a moment,
and slam my head
against the table.

With twist and turns,
the boring would begin.
And I'd watch
liquid brain drip out.

Thursday, April 8, 2010


Isabelle is playing possum
in the fields again,
pretending to be dead
as the day goes by.

As grass grows
and bug swarm
we kick dirt at her
and laugh.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Old Town

It must be spring--
Through open windows,
the roar of trucks rolling by.

Monday, April 5, 2010


I am the corner
of a page
folded over.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

I drip down the leg
of my favorite chair
and drown in a pool
of boredom.

Friday, April 2, 2010

The Breadmaker

Bread crumbs shed
on the kitchen floor.
Through dusty waves
of whole wheat pollen,
we watch the bread tree grow.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

She is carrots and beets,
and parsnips bent
over wooden spoons,
swells of sauvignon
dried out
on the floor.