Late afternoon. Subarctic shoreline. Sun nowhere to be seen. Beneath an opaque white sky...

How do we capture experience? Trap words in a jar and seal it tight?   Words trapped in a jar and sealed up tight are muzzled, silenced...

Capture for me in vivid and moving verse The essence of a summer day, distilled Down to the happiness in a honeybee’s dance. Sing for me...

In twilight's grasp, the oak stands tall and proud,  Its branches whisper secrets to the breeze... 

Silver moon glows, whispers...

His feet touch earth, and the soil recalls his heft, every step a soft murmur of unwilling return. The sky unmoved...

Mown hay to the sun after rain. Otherwise you’ll find it in the middle leaves of bales, the mold that sickens them, that cures them. The...

I did not like to be held as a child trapped in my mother's lap. Her arms constricting, every fidget of my body. Nowhere for my head to...

“Unhand her, vagabond,” was my one line  in the school play. I had the part of the cop,  a minor role compared to Beth Levine’s,  the...

High above Locarno’s port with outside eyes to east at  midnight: fires of the skies  come speak to me in staccato  forks flashed seconds...

Porch light haloed  in moths, house leaking into the night.  Inside, my father drinks, dark rum cleaving memory from throat,  I take it...

Bodies heavy with rifles, we gorged on meat, fresh from the river and yellow fields, just boys learning to carry  death on our tongues, ...

Like supernovae artists, clouds disperse behemoth art,

Look out, Ophiuchus, Voyager’s near! Earth has randomly shot some gold your way. We hope our sounds and music suit your ear and you’ll...

five thousand feet above Sing Sing, you talk of your father, how thieves left him to die

Figures sprawl around the fountain, stretching out Like cracks across gray stones,

A city with no factories smolders in the afternoon, Above it, a dome of exhaust rises without a train

Golden brown parasols clustered near oak stumps, as if an artist

The dark woods invite me in to walk on pine needles between tall spruce and fir,

Without a hope of getting it right, the lake, calm and round, like a patch of mirror...