"The city flowers citrine, violet, hyacinth. Radiance, too, on every face, open as petals unfurling in the deep shadows stealing up the riverbank. Briefly, we are all brothers and sisters, acolytes of spring."
"Sometimes, I feel it,”
She confesses, “in the spring near daybreak, when I
Sit in my garden and watch the crocus blossom.”
"blood moon your face behind my eyelids"
"Those who worship the beauty of the moon, I will tell her, are beautiful in return. And perhaps I will not have to tell her anything at all. Perhaps she will tell me."
"When I was a very little girl—une toute petite fille--
I would learn French, I would."
"I think once some ancient poet saw a ferryman during such a sunset as this, and Lethe was born."
"Those green desert-only eyes and skin baked red like clay and cracked like the dust under the sun looking at me from the rearview mirror."
Has to grow up. Then what?"
"I'm thinking of the doomed days of the poetry club.
I'm thinking of the man reading French, never understanding a word
in the basement of the Bowery Poetry Club,
now replaced by another burlesque joint--
how the hip do inherit the Earth! And like locusts
will end by devouring us all."
"I have the weight of hours."
"A village like a medieval witch--
all cobweb shawl and thin cats and bells that cackled
"...at night, there remains inside of me a place I cannot reach,/ like a country cut off from diplomatic missions/ that sometimes dreams of you..."
“Baby’s Latest: Going Diaperless.” Such headlines mock my pain, reading the paper to touch the world, but this image of Madonna and child atop toilet cuts deep– I only wish: thoughts of trash we create torture me, undo my good..."
"Pin-tuck, pleat my dreams,/quilt me, hem me,/
fully line my being/ with purple-striped lambs wool/
of only the highest quality."
*These publications are no longer available online, but the poems are available in my chapbook here: