wrack & blight [a poem]

I am trying hard


see in shades of græy,


but all I have is

a vision

of blinding starlight,


and all around it

– in lush bolts –

glittering darkness.


this is an apple [a poem]

sour apples – ma

sliced them for me, a

snack – large slices, on

a yard sale saucer.


tough-skinned and green, no

blemish, no spot, they

burned their way down on

an empty belly.


early you learned there’s

no puckering no

squinting no faces –

this is sweet, she said:


this is an apple.


you forget there are

other apples and

other kinds of sweet,

names like blush and pink.


there they are on the

shelf, shined and pouting.

yes you see and you

don’t recognize them.

Earth Dogged [a poem]

what is the

time between

new years called?

that floating

time between

sunpath and

the last pass

of the moon?


when do you

wish, and what

for? and when

do you sweep

the floors? when

do you wear

all of your

luckiest things?

and do your


know where to

find you this

side of the

ocean? and

when do you

cut your hair?


do you start

over when

they say it’s

time to start

over or

do you start

over when

THEY say it’s

time to start

over or


do you hold

your breath for

the cover of

moonless night,

just like an


to give birth


to yourself

in a world

that is now

not so new?


who is there

holding your

hands over

incense and

do/can they


you anew?

what is that

time called, that

time between

new years, and


what do you

call yourself

while you are

new and yet



Reformation [a poem]

The dream begins in darkness, the
waking in the cold,
the rising onto floorboards that have
long ago grown old.

And the dream is limitless in
colors I can’t see, a
panoply of rising tides, a
new cacophony –

A dream that is worth kingdoms, a
dream that shatters walls, a
dream that endures while the dreamers
pass and empires fall.

And we dream in broken English
and we dream in sound a
dream that’s fat and queer and good and
Black, yellow, and brown.

And we dream the reclamation
and we dream of liberty
from the dream that held the poorest
in captivity.

And we dream in worry, and we
dream of worlds to come, and we
bleed and sweat and toil for the
New Jerusalem.

While five hundred years have passed, the
dream remains the same:
unnamable, incomparable, and
you must light the way.