Poems found

here— as if words written

on tissue meant something.

truth, if it allowed itself to be

relative, would reveal the same:

“I have never given it thought,”

And yet, still. But because.

perhaps —say it— during breakfast,

despite the cold, we become. We

let Friday settle in our shoes so it

can turn into dust. Unless songs, one

without feet to play it, can

exclam: “Be yourself”. Maybe then.

permanence never was; it only

existed in fragments. And I’ll 

remember which table,

when it drops.


H-aray-ku Series

1) to touch the sunburst

in a field of wildflowers

with burning fingers

2) a resounding no

inside walls calling your name

where are you going?

3) that which she calls name

for whom she sings a love song

that which she weeps for

4) of fingers and dust

where do raccoons leave their nests?

somewhere, hands will touch