Regards to all those solitary places
where unaccompanied, some fear to stroll,
located in a wasteland that erases,
then redefines and purifies the soul.
A beating muscle somewhere in the middle
of wilderness is sensed before its seen,
there ‘found’ and ‘lost’ united, form a riddle
and pinnacle inverts into ravine.
Where time is only relative to season,
dimensions shared by life and death converge,
recombinant, these patterns beyond reason
adapt spontaneously and emerge.
A frequent misconception that forsaken,
within this void, there wander the forlorn.
Clear glimpses of existence are mistaken
for dirges sung by landscapes left to mourn

Partly Buried


I spent the anniversary of our
goodbye alone upon a shore with half-
moon rocks. A piece of lightning in a jar
or afternoon trapped in a photograph
could never give off light so cotton-clean
as tumbled feldspar can. How much like fruit,
or scattered ostrich eggs they are. The green
soft moss grew over some. The sluggish roots
of Ponderosa Pines had grown around
a few. Beyond a sandbar’s naked shoulder,
the place we spent all day just looking down
the river. Partly buried, there’s a boulder
we rolled together, struggling through the sand;
the windbreak for a fire we had planned.

Ruby Slippers


H0w crookedly
these ruby slippers
walk and amble
on their way back home.
You stood there
strung out, lathered,
on a box, and sang to me
while spinning ’round
the globe. As fingers
feel for something
in the dark, familiarity
Is often clothed
within the braille
of stunning, naked scars,
that map and twist,
then flatten out,
While skipping
stones across a white
capped pond,
I looked again
and all the swells
were swans.