Poems

A Collection

Street At Night

a glove

wet baseball cap

shards of glass


Glove, does the hand miss you?


the bike wheel squeals

at the dirty fur and a broken tail

a piece of truth

flattened


a voice peeled off the humid air

leaving it crisp

poor Birds, it says,

they always think it’s the morning

Watermelon

The cement pavement

a desert with stale sand

holds the heaviness of a thousand globes

filled with the grainy flesh of August

and dull echoes of sweetness


She cuts one open

splashes of dry sugar

the same sound when the earth splits

Waiting Room

The air was withering as it passed through the dusty window pane.

Nothing answered the monotune of the rolling suitcase.

A pair of black high heels tapped impatiently until a gaze ridiculed them.

Two hands spread the newspaper: small headline fonts.

All that was happening in the world shrank next to the thin yellow sign:


PASSENGERS MUST PURCHASE AND

VALIDATE TICKETS PRIOR TO BOARDING THE TRAIN

The Gown

I look out of the window: slate roofs, snow

Patches of pale green and paler pink


Pigments the old man once chose

to paint the lotus flowers

on white silk


When the paint dried

he raised the scissors and followed

the imagined contour of a body


He was tailoring a gown

that now sits in my suitcase

two thousand miles above the ground


Are you getting married?

He asked with a tape measure around my waist

No, I am just going away.