hamartia no. 1

it is just spring,
and you are
sun on water

(golden, the harvest gleams
inferior, this transitional day
before the withering).

i would tell you i loved you,
but then i would be
without an umbrella

(climate change has shifted
the weather, my dear,
made monsoons out of molehills).

the curl of your hair
is a wave perpetual.
sands shift endless as time

(my love, i cannot stand
this tempestuous tide
for I am made of salt).

the beautiful sadness
of comings and goings
is one i cannot tear away –

Like the waiting, like the rain

I did not come out of the darkness,
But dragged in a scrap of the light.
Like the cat, snaggletoothed, watching
The birds dive from the trees like arrows,
Like confetti - like the surprise party
We threw for a friend - the scissors
Framed in paper scraps as if to say
I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. Like
Baby shower balloons on an empty patio,
Like watching the sun roll downhill
The day before the end, earlier than
We had ever seen before. Like
Eating birthday cake alone in the dark
Once all the guests have gone home.
Like the dying, like the dawn,
Like the diamond in the rough. Like
Fumbling in the dark for limbs,
Language, or lost homes. Losing your mind
Is not like losing your keys or your phone.
Like the waiting, like the rain, like
The scars left in the sand by the sea. Like
Looking for words in the dust under the bed.
Like shadow in the corner of the eye, a haunting.


a single event does not a pattern make:
global warming is not a winter without rain,
but a hundred warnings -

the ice slow-groan growing from the pack,
a terrible flower with petals unfurling slowly and all at once,
the way a life skids terribly out of shape,
a bullet hole and burdens
strewn across the sidewalk.

not many have seen the miracle and horror of it all: no
siren wail, no final bow, just a gut-wrenching
         sudden -
there were dolphins in the river here, now no more.
we sleep on silent waters roaring to an end.

look at this lack, this loss,
lick our yawning wounds:
blind by knowing, deaf by wise
the way is clear with the end in sight,
so miss the forest for the trees.
so many signs, so many symbols, so many slights.

two corvids alight on the road:
twice as much sorrow, or half as much joy?
the prophesy is in the distance, burning.


she was a Gordian knot.
          the antithesis of all tangled things,
the space between the unsolvable.

the stretch of a year:
her diagnosis cinched around our necks in hitches and bends,
          a thousand timed illusions
          wrapped around her fingers.

we were fleeced.
          she knit sweaters from our empathy,
cross-stitched our hearts into handbags.

          one moment we held her hand in the dark,
          the next we woke the minotaur.
          the labyrinth dazed, mazed and knotted
          in the throb [a memory trick] of veins:

(our veins.
or in which she entwined,
          knit and purl,
the deception to tear us apart,

but aren’t you glad we’re still alive?)

the old myths don’t speak much of this scarring.
that you can take the man from the monster, but
not the monster from the man.
          we take up ropeburn as a battle axe,
          bear suffering as badges of honor.

but speaks still she does,
          gnarled voice soft as saplings,
in our ears
          supple for bending,
of home, and home and home, and
somewhere out of reach
                                            is an end

(but I can’t find the end
(but I can’t find you either


2018 FEB  - LOGO 3.jpg




the wild is where we retreat to build new systems and societies that are kinder and more imaginative than the one we live in.