Poetry

Tussock Moths

Borderline broadcast / crocheted - haphazardly / by grandma’s arthritic fingers.

Tableau

There’s a cockroach wiggling in, above, and behind-below my gut

Last Ride

I do miss that sky.

Philosophic Fragments

Love is a memory. Love is a memory that’s present, / A memory not resolved, not passing into past,

Desert Meadow

All through winter life burnt; all through spring. / Autumn, a spoke on the same wheel, will repeat

I’m glad I’m not rich because I’m pretty sure I’d be an asshole

you can never be an ocean / if you’re afraid to make waves

Before Kickball

Home plate the man hole cover / Pitcher’s mound that line of orange spray paint