Allow me to be the poet of the whispers/ Before being a poet of the words./ Allow me to be the poet of the

Central Park is towerless and trailing today, tourists tangling together onto a cul-de-sac lawn. From afar, I steepen

Late fall and near the edge of sleep/ I take in, from behind a latticed/ Window, a courtyard covered with/ The

fly beneath stratus clouds/ on elephant ears/ (mind the loosened girth/ wrapped beneath her torso)// let these

I am the architect of this poem/ My blueprints say that/ It is a meta plan/ I hope you enjoy my design.// Now I

In the gloom of a Spring morning,/ I feel the slow-moving fog wrap/ around me, hiding me inside/ these woods

In the horizon I see black birds/ perched on dry branches of a tree/ and/ red clouds threatening/ life below.

Friends are bubbles of oxygen,/ when it’s hard to breathe,/ taking a deep inhale becomes easier./ Friends are

Slow motion/ Camera/ Fascinating.../ The ball/ Dropping/ Into water.../ The cat/ Landing/ Unsurprisingly/ On four paws...

O Jupiter, you’re/ the big and toasty/ king of planets./ If you were any/ larger, you’d be/ a star centered/ in a solar

This recovery will require/ a kind of alchemy// Of clay/ & kinetic energy// The repairing/ of sinew,// The

i water my moonflowers when midnight falls,/ watching the wilted bulbs bloom into full/ moons. there comes

She was forever captivated/ By the man on the mountain./ Every day, without fail,/ He would lean against a large

Tipping but not falling/ a little tilt and it became creamier—/ a cave holding light. How it melted then/ and

“A cup of strong coffee please,” to overcome the bitterness of life,/ “Mild coffee,” to think about what’s up in

The sun dwells daintily on the border of the sea,/ Streaking the sky with hues of pink for as far the eye can see./ As

In a handbasket,/ in an old gray truck,/ a line of dust the only/ proof it leaves behind,/ out in the beige desert

Lady of water, artwork of stones and spears./ She, survivor of wars and ages,/ now drowning in tears of men.

Do mirrors show what is true/ Or a perceived version of you.// When you look inside/ What do you have to hide.

A jar of beetroot, given in kindness/ by a friend, has wintered/ in a kitchen press for three years./ When I