The expectation of her scream found me
On the third of our two dates. She needed
No protection but the thin lights of a balcony
Overlooking a stream of metal boxes with metal wheels.
She said the noise helped her sleep, carried to unknown
Directions the conclusions of dreams she did not commit.
I believed her false jokes—
They were never mine to judge. What right
Of arbitration did I possess
Within the curls of my cigarette breath?
She left as she had come: with an exclamation
And an unwashed silhouette inside the corners of our house.




Even the white of the dying sun
Avoids my bedroom window,
Another Sunday afternoon
Dissolved within a rectangle eight by ten.
The neighbors passed
Away overseas. I saw
The ship’s shadow cast off,
Left beneath a front door
No one thought to disembark: blank, handwritten,
Like the intention of their goodbyes.
I miss their casual violence, the staccato
Of youth unrealized, each cry
Transmuted to fill the hole above my head.
Perhaps I shall visit them, follow starstiched
The longitudes of our deceit.


Erasure (Revised)


Stay a month longer, Jin-dynastied sun…
Too eager you signed unfounding breath.
Greeting came carcass-gifted,
Calamitous cause leaves unsaid?

Enlighten then your parapeted subjects:
Sixty-thousand they stand, suicide-shawled.
Where erred veneration,
When fell celebration?
The horsed horde at our gates know not love
(Their language lacks the rhyme).

At those hands 
Are we to be skull-split,
Rent from family and form,
Rent for silver and sex?

False prophet!
It cannot be!
And so.

Your claims I disavow, your shapes I abnegate.
To my disciples I say only


Adopt, in final moment,
The butterfly’s art.



I often (re)write poems. A dramatized re-telling of the original.



Hold steadfast First feeling;
Allow not second-rate puppeteer
Memory’s mastery.
Capture, once more, the cannonball 
Crack of her laughter, in yellow twinkle-toed
Like that jacket you lost, and the mango sorbet
Still stuck beneath her tongue.
Do you remember Last night
In the foreign field of our home,
Where sylvan stars gave birth,
Again and again?
A theater of billions
For a tragedy of two.


The Simplicity of Confession


Her breath they buried
Within the lyrics of their church.
Her laughter they swept
Away into lightless’d corners
Gilded with shame, silvered sound
Painted red—but spoken blue,
Like the crooked curves
Between their teeth. For whom
Do you lie? The goliaths have gone
Back to their fathers. Only You remain—
And lessons yet unlearned. Let us
Then begin: The murder of a word
Takes only two: a little ima-gination
And the ecstasy of silence.


Peripheral Primitive


Along shores of December’d song he voyaged,
Winterbound to house named Home no longer.
The first of four rooms He discovered
(In dream):
Immemorial passage black-walled, black-doored.
A chest it held with heart within—
But keyless its creator, lockless its liberator.
Into the second of four rooms He toppled
(In trance):
Sylvan circus dappled by dismembered masque.
Enchantressed shadows it held—
Shifting boldly from lines to limb.
They spoke to him, graved in sky his crime.
Upon the third of four rooms He stumbled
(In silence, solemn):
Dome unbound, unchartered, woven in cosmic dissolution.
Great beasts it held: earliest and unborne, caged
By starkissed sorrow. Amongst them he strode,
Unchallenged David, long-live’d David, fourth-forgotten David.


Inspired by Man and his Symbols, pg. 40