Poetry

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

Lake Shore Drive

Behind your grandfather's credenza / I found a photograph,

Childlike

Periodically, I've wanted to extend my youth, / When all the magic seemed to lose its spark,