Flown Birds

Starlings have a better language;
the toss of a lion’s head
is more understood
than our garbled
gestures in love.
Must we piss it forth
as fine lines
on the snow;
these hours spun
in the uncertainty
of how
to touch one another.

What are words,

but surprised
frozen roses caught
round a face;
flown birds.


Squnting into Negative Space

Legs, pale as my excuses,
perfectly making their way to your chest.
The feather of an eyelash
taking in the rest.
A circumference
full of finer pins,
a compliment, a
The evening’s duck
cools down, can be felt
quivering in the middle, is

balanced on my outstretched palm.

Unseasonably February

There were birds this morning,
as though the weakened winter sneezed.
The great dial of clicking days
grows unwieldy.
Trees pimple too soon
for the calendar,
bees rustle
in their waxy hollows.

Waiting for the train,
we wearily shoulder
ill-chosen coats,
are pipe-cleaner figures
with overdressed gestures.

The city slides by,
conjured up
through the late March
trompe l’oeil.

My eyes are full
of tortoise shell,
the pomegranate crowds,
searching every face
for love.


Small Hour

I think about you in the small hour,
you are sprinkled in the pinstriped
electricity of the evening,
thin, wavered by the dark.
Your head is an Iris
blossoming out of a collar,
trembling, uneven:
brick wall graffiti
or poetry in charcoal.

I am diving and flown;
a Kingfisher lost in a wintry park.

The starlight on my cheeks.
is only a galaxy’s past-life
catching my upturned face,
significant, weak;
the fly inside a bottle,
necks of shadow cast
beneath a cedar.

I try to imagine
you looking back at me
under skinny crescents
of stingy moons
and flutter there like cash
from a cloud’s hip pocket.



The moon is a fisheye
peering through a rosebush puzzle.
I had never considered
looking for you up there.

I still have a few roses
and it is late October;
it doesn’t seem odd
to see your eye falling
patiently through
the clouds this evening.

It is not so strange
for me to cast
my bad luck
to an Autumn wind
already full
of brittle leaves.



The Wild-mouse and Funhouse.
We rode in the Hammer’s caged
with nausea.

Around us,
of edible pink cotton
out of many fists.
The circular gallop
of impaled steeds
pumped color up and down,
while a recorded organ
ground giddy-up harmony
into the crowd.

Boys with flung arms
snapped toward
pyramids of lead
stacked under shelves
lined with overstuffed
Their undeveloped
men drove miniature cars,
sparked and bumping
in the board-wooden shade;
they somehow, seemed shinier.

Duets of laughter
and regurgitated screams.
with ringlets
soaked in shallow
cups of collar bones.
Your knees,
then ankles met,
bent the calves to pigeoned toes,
elipsed the air with legs
that bowed and formed
the shape of a long heart.

Our braced mouths,
metal-toothed and two
lycra trainer-bras
supporting flat-chested
we were unacquainted
with the moon’s womb-

Carnie hotdogs and snow cones,
the funnel cake looped
through each girlish
gut knew
that this really was
all there would ever be.


Just Gone Blue

Where are you blue?
Caught up in the noonday altitude,
capsized in a comma,
rung through the jagged
edge of a bluebell.
Are you rotten with azure,
bruised by the brisk air,
moving with a glacier, clapped
under a cobalt minor scale
the color of rain.
Riding an indigo’s
night shade
with Bessie
Smith and Bobby
in a sapphire’s flame.
Squawking back
through a Steller’s Jay
bill, puckered on an early
huckleberry. Have you
turned around to turquoise,
found your coy in teal,
or maybe just gone,