From Asking the Form
Milkweed
It was a small velvet box.
It was a dry brown pod.
It was something tightly sealed,
rattling its riches
or silent with fullness.
I carried it home
to the shelf, forgotten—
until it snapped open,
until it breathed out,
trailing nothing,
completely unattached,
the seeds of it.
The Meeting
There are things we could talk about,
large, interesting, amazing things,
questions that concern both of us.
Facing each other, we smile,
we listen, we speak,
politely.
There are things we could talk about,
protected, treasured,
within both of us.
We could turn in that direction.
We could try to put into words
the flame, the desire, the fear.
Maybe we will.
Perhaps that is why
we meet here, hopeful, polite,
facing each other,
though I sit alone
in a kind of wretchedness
I can’t tell you about.
There are things we could talk about,
questions could rise glowing
between us.
What stops us?
Why do I sit here, alone,
silent and trying
to speak to you?
“The Meeting” first appeared in Constellations.
After Painting
Mist, scratches of yellow in the green,
branches of mauve, white
undersides of leaves all along
the south-bound highway—
for we painted this morning.
The island rose before us,
spruce and red pine. Bright squirts of paint
beside two cups of coffee. Our brushes
with orange handles swished color quickly
over empty space.
Some poems online:
Swimming, The Bookends Review
Raptor, Exposition Review
City Garden, Hawk and Whippoorwill
Perennial, Inflectionist Review #7, p. 71
Nine Walking Dreams, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review
Two poems, Muddy River Poetry Review
What I Didn’t Do, Muddy River Poetry Review
Two Poems, The Poetry Porch 2020