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Poems

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  • It’s Not Your Fault

    The brass lamp in your window,

  • Paper

    Damned if I’ll be the woman who collects mass produced throw pillows counts her

  • Death of God

    Bituminous was so soft, so much like dust

  • CONGREGATION | AT LAST

    We are six strangers gathered

  • Flowers in a Vase

    The dahlias' unopened buds poke like periscopes above their clownish mass

  • The Headless Horseman | A Tune for Theremin Vox

    The messenger was so dead they sent him

  • Poem with Ginger in it

    This rough hooked lump, this botched

  • Toys

    Your toys, my child, hold them dear,

  • After the Paris Bombings

    I lent my Daily Missal, which had been published before they dropped the Latin, to Robin. Though she had been

  • Love Talk | On the Way to the Casinos

    What the boy heard his older sister say—

  • A SHOUT FROM THE DARK

    If like a Buddhist I accepted the world

  • Weather Report

    These white stripes of day achieve