Grammar
Writing is a culture
in which I is capitalized, and you, and we, are not.
Craft
Art is the thing that keeps me afloat, more like the bucket, less like the boat.
Just won a Kindle Fire HD! Thanks Sixth College for letting me participate.
Morning
Day breaks
intently over my
scar-less body
in rustling sheets
and pastel bars
of window gleam
that find their way
through the shutters.
You say I love you
for the first time,
meaning we have
come a long way,
and I want to hurt you,
and this is the beginning
of the beginning
of the end
Sweets
You remember
each sweet thing
sighed carefully
between us, the honest
mistakes that didn’t
pull our words apart
I remember our
unspoken phrases,
the politics
involved in shared
desserts.
Where The Night Goes
When wakefulness comes
passing fog and chill air
first light of morning
through the little cracks in the blinds
I think about the night
and where it went
I watch daytime moons linger
below the sun
a fatigue that lingers as well.
and from my view in the afternoon
I watch summer’s longest shadows
he-shaped and she-shaped pieces of it
stretched out along the cement
When she is laying in the sand
top untied and loose hair falling
around her neck
I spot it in the growing darkness of her skin
the freckled stars on her back
and I look for one
in its little brown constellation
and I kiss it with a wish
and then search for another
Published in Poetry Quarterly
Published in Poetry Quarterly
Published in Poetry Quarterly
Limbs
You are a girl.
The one with big eyes and
compasses on her feet
the one that looks down
and shakes her head
as I walk by
and is too right;
I have no directions to give.
You are a girl.
The one with quick hands
and someone else on her mind,
the one that taught me
its easy to pull my heart out
and hard to put it back in.
