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Two Poems

To a New Chair   The room is ready for you, dear. I’ve cleared everything out, Whatever is left is yours. From now on, I’m beside the point. As long as I sit still, Your wings will carry me far.

Two Poems

Why I’m Here   I have no clue-it was weird, yes but I would say molested but not abused like the one here who was raped repeatedly and caged or that one chained four hundred days to a radiator… But,

Three Poems

Father Enters the Water In life, he would walk into the water slowly until it reached his waist and stand there for a while, his arms out to the side, fingering the water, looking at the horizon.  Then at last


Low sky, slow air, and nothing much stirs in the mind either, save thoughts of my distant mother moving from bed to chair to table and back again. Now she is calm, the days passing like ghost ships through the


The summer I bought Pet Sounds at G.C. Murphy’s, I hadn’t gone a block from the store when on impulse I smashed the album, still in the sleeve, against a lamp post in Girard Park between the make-out benches and

A Pittsburgh Bakery in Winter

Into Prantl’s, on Walnut Street, through the sudden scrim of snow, an ancient white-haired couple hunches. Dusk of Pittsburgh frigid winter, enough to freeze the rivers, after hours of rare exquisite sun, now vanished for another score of days, yet


                         for Alice   Five a.m.—the soft percussion of the rain on the slanted rooftop of my study. I study it: a single drop dropping again and again at

Two Poems

Somebody’s Got My Hair   Somebody’s got my hair, I said to my lover, who stood in front of the mirror in a long white t-shirt brushing out her thick black hair. The silver brush glinted. I touched my head

Three Poems

On Time ”non in tempore sed cum tempore Deus creavit ordinem mundi.” —St. Augustine The light years arriving after untold time, or driving away from us, the distances lost in it. . . . You lie here at night, saline

Monk’s Eye, #20

20   Of all rhythms he found day and night the most beautiful. One, two, and thank God no three. That only came later, when everything was over, a dark number   disguised as a nought. How does a work

Swishing Tails of Horses, Octo…

Mine, says the glorious yearling claiming the path, a rubber runner laid to save her feet.   She will be bought for a sheikh’s stable in Australia, though she does not, cannot, know   her exact luck, this rosy grey

In Praise of Wandering

Iceland   You ask how we do it. Simple. We travel light. Our stash—peanut butter, jelly, bread. When we can get it, cake. We’re not fussy. A clean knife is when I lick it. A very clean knife? We both


It’s not the smoking I miss but his mouth reciting verses in between taking deep swigs. The water bottle might have tipped me off to his neediness. Who needs to drink that much throughout the day? Not even a horse,


She speaks for him, her husband’s deepening dementia like a river through which she has led him to this place, its current strong but not unconquerable.  Carefully, she holds his hand, still guiding him as in Korean now the translator


Because the worst catastrophes always come without warning. Because I never knew who was already several buckets of rust to the wind in other chambers. On the floor of my blue bedroom, turning the key to my roller skate a