I joke over dinner that I get anxiety 
from the sound of a text or call–
but it’s also a half-truth, a relic
of freelance work, the odd hours, 
or the shoe about to drop–you never know
what kind of ill will comes after supper
when folks get mean and wanting something
from you, whatever that thing may be,
I tell them. I can’t tell if it’s a job, some fun,
or a happy accident–this messenger chance
as improbable as their mouth on air
tracing esses, as if suddenly by naming me
I would be wholy formed again.

The women I’ve told I love you,
counted on the fingers of one hand.
The ones who responded in kind, less.
A stranger to this geography,
I only see part of the picture
to draw ekphrases, to order words.  

Forgive me: I want to know
what lies outside the frame,
below the golden words suspended,
behind the cloth and flesh, in your heart.  

Around here, 
There may be roosters,
 But it is I who rule the roost.
All others must pay homage to 
My perfect plumage 
While I strut through the farm
Fanned and fancy in full fashion. 

The cock may crow, 
But it is I who will awaken 
My subjects by blessing them with 
My pristine presence
While I alight upon cage and rooftop alike
Greeting goat, guinneas, and girl. 

He can climb his ladder inside,
But outside the barn, 
I reign supreme, royalty
My proven position 
While I am king –
High-browed, high-mannered, yet
Hugely humble.  

Mimeograph, oh mimeograph
what sweet memories you bring  

The rapture of being chosen to turn
the crank, watch the drum spin,
turning backward print into purple miracle
poems, spelling sheets, times tables

The delight of warm sheets smelling of
grownups and secrets and wisdom
of being trusted to carry the paper
stack carefully from office to classroom  

Mimeograph, oh mimeograph
how I loved you

It takes a separate leap
of faith to imagine in each
far off wave, a shiny silver

streak of blue fish flesh:
an arch of giant mammal
leap from the infinity

of endless sea,
exciting wonder,
possibility,

perhaps the misty spray
of a distant blowhole
or hint of dorsal fin

as the wave breaks,
then folds in.

Every false hope
leaves me to blink,

hand over eyebrows,
squint of lids,

as if the trick might
work as a crude lens.

It was only light
and shadow.

Wrong again.

you tossed the core in the grass when you were finished
when it decomposes the decay will bury back into the earth.
like an apple, you’ve left my skin bruised
and when you toss me i’ll decompose
but where will i go back to?

I’d have kept you alive
for 20 more years. You’d stop

wearing a beat-up Cincinnati
Reds cap to hide the thinning

tendrils of your blonde-gray
hair.  I convince you that bald

is sexy.  In your soaring
tenor you’d belt out two

original love songs at my front
yard wedding–only six of us &

Chrysiantha–under the Sugar
Maple.  No more delivering

Dominoes at 2 am, double
cheese & pepperoni. Your album

climbs to #1 on the Americana 
charts & you leave Nashville once

& for all with your faded blue
pick-up, red & white

Fender & Tina, your spectacular middle
age lover.  You take Brenda, the sweet

dappled calico, along too; the light
of Carolina still strong in your voice. 

Two-hundred
and six
bones—
the skeleton
of a good story.

Hopeful, idyllic 
Needed Now more than Ever
In America!

Snowflakes fall to the ground,

the truck has little gas.

It’s okay, it’s good enough.

This man’s kiss tastes like the moon!

This man’s eyebrows are a work of art!

This man’s Peruvian hands are migratory!

This is as strong as surfing in Pacasmayo.

Let’s sit on this snowy roof

and feel like a tank full of gasoline.