Tossing away sandwiches,
chewing gum, cigarettes,
he made his heaven from wrappers,
commerce’s carapace. Who would discard
the meat of the thing: shake out
the book and bow to
the...
Only whiskey burns the sorrow as she grieves.
Purple velvet once surrounded golden dreams.
Both a season and a reason left on leave.
Now a memory left...
L’Auteur Fatslug
Fatslug wonders how people dreamed or daydreamed
before the movies infiltrated their thoughts.
He himself has become his own Steven Spielberg—
or, depending on his...
In the photo of the kitchen fire,
We are dressed for Christmas:
Me in a flammable hand-me-down jacket,
Her in her costume jewelry
And her Edward Scissorhands t-shirt.
The...
My father, tangled in the height of adolescence,
wept outside Old Saint Paul’s Church as spring died,
reading Desiderata. The poem lay inscribed
in rock at the...
Through the harsh whistle of a
bullying Blue Jay from the feeder,
the Common Yellowthroat’s
wichity-wichity-wichity,
we find our own through bill and tap
and rhythmic drumming on drainpipe,
bone...
True Story Metaphor for My Parents' Divorce
In this shrinking house, I am still growing,
my wrist gripped between window and sill,
one toe pinched in neat...
When I went to pick my daughter up at pre-school,
the kids were on the playground. Her teachers
eyed me uncomfortably and glanced across
the slide at...
Hobbs Square, 1955, Worcester, MAAfter a photograph of Cecile Aaronson by a Telegram and Gazette photographer
The woman stands at the open windowon the day...
Cosquilla
you provided for me make-believe-come-realfairy tales tangible and new<you added texture to my paintingsgrains of heaven engulfed in color and hue
linear needs met wavy...
