Poetry & Prose

I look for you. I know you are dead but I look for you. An irrational act, but I look for you. Not in a city taking up space, you’ve timed out of space, but in a peripheral time, the suburb of memory where dead friends live. I  remember them, at least try to, I offer...

There are things I know. There are things I don’t know. There are things I know I don’t know. There are things I don’t know I don’t know. Then there are things I can’t know. Those are fundamental things, the bedrock of all knowing. You can’t know them either. That is...

I have no need to be great. A solid good is fine. I’m wary of very best. Superlatives make me dizzy, especially self-imposed superlatives. When asked who I am, I reply, I am the self I am getting over. Getting over yourself is a big undertaking.

“Poetry is a way of holding experience, not holding on to, but holding.” Anne Michaels Canadian Poet Something was over. The war, I was told. People were happy. I was two. Whatever war was, it was good it was over. I was right to be happy. We all were. Our side won....

The clerk called me “Sweetheart” as I paid my bill and checked out of the grocery store line. In reply, I apologized for my poor memory. “I’m sorry, our affections were so long ago I do not remember our trysts or your name.” Actually, I said, “Have a nice day,” cliché...

A day before the mid-election, I sit in my garden enjoying late warmth, as the last brittle leaves drift down. Suddenly a strong gust blows through the yard. A civic maple tree, bare of withered opinions, pitches toward the house, stays, then corrects, returns to...

The rain cloud says to the river,             you too need to be filled. The river says to the sea, you too need to be filled. The sea says to the rain cloud,             you too need to be filled. The human says to the earth I need to be filled....

A poet is one for whom the universe has waived its right to remain silent.

This poem begins with licking a postage stamp which implies I wrote the letter before 1989, my moist tongue tasting the last postal glue, The friend I was writing to thirty-three years ago died ten years ago. The letter expressed the pleasure we took in the range and...