GHOSTS

I make ghosts.

From the things

I won’t say.

From the things

I haven’t given you

a chance to say.

They look like us.

Walk and talk

like us. They are

us. They are

hollow

in their silence.

Shadows emptied 

of song.

 KIND OF BLUE

There is a music in me

that needs to be tempered.

It's too strident, 

too brassy.

If I was Miles Davis

and the song was

“My Funny Valentine,”

I’d know what to do: I’d mute it.

That’s the tone,

the timbre I’m after.

A quiet kind of blue.

Strength in fragility.

CAT TOY

It dances in the air.

Twirls and flutters.

It entrances, casts its spell.

A wild frenzy ensues—

all because of a talent

to tease and toy.

What did Emily Dickinson say?

Hope is the thing with feathers.

There was hope, at first,

until the illusion wore off

and all that remained was

a few paltry plumes,

a string and a stick.

I am the cat

in this story.

There was never a bird.

Hope molted before

my desiring eyes.

THIS FERTILE WORLD

Begonia blossoms,

butterflies at dusk,

eggs inside of Armadillos—

this is a fertile world

filled with premonitions

and civil wars.

Let’s pit lovers against poachers

to try to keep it safe—

and then go on watching

the memories we haven’t had yet

from underneath flimsy umbrellas

in a century of rain.

And the rooster…we mustn’t forget

to set it free

before the gamblers come

to cart it off

to the cockfight.

All we need is

an ingot’s worth

of imagination

and some parchment

to translate

nocturnal sweats

into couplets of grace

penned with the poison

from a scorpion’s tail.

Time is nothing more than
learning to foxtrot in iron shoes.

THE ARCHER

An arrow.
Aim. Release.

You will hit or miss

your mark.

Assess the situation 
and try again—

with greater attention.

Bow and string

are designed for

just this

measured action.

Firing more than one 

quill at a time 
will complicate 

the whole affair.
The same principle 

applies when 
it comes to 

the archery 
of the heart.

Patience equals
practice.

NESTING

the shade of an almond tree—

the nest to the nests of redbreasts

the world is like this

it  gives us everything we need

to make it our home,

for us to feel like

we belong here

every day is an assemblage,

an intricate architecture

made from

mud, twigs, and leaves,

human hair and animal fur,

moss, pine needles, and litter, 

dental floss and cob webs,

broom bristles, straw and stem,

pebbles, string, and paper,

and the true glue: spittle

let’s use it all,

and our imagination,

to make our own

place in the shade

MAGICAL REALISM

Every part of the land had curled in on itself.

An amnesia and a sinister sleep slumbered in its roots.

And then, what seemed like centuries later,

one day in March the gypsies came with their music,

their kettledrums and pipes,

and with their spectacular discoveries on display—

ice, magnets, and telescopes—

and their greatest invention of all, Wonder.

Only then did the jungle and the river

that ran through it wake.

Only then did the leaves sing and dance

in praise of their own venation and verdancy.

Only then did the rocks in the riverbed shine 

like quasars remembering the beginning of time.

This vitality was the reality, the magic, 
the land knew as itself. 

Alchemy was its oxygen.

And March was its memory.