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Wednesday, March 29, 2017


What we don’t see: on
the back of a cell phone, a
sky of brilliant stars.
(after Basho)

An idle day, on
the couch with cats, hum of the

A week’s clothes tumble
in the dryer, and we read,
silent, together.

Hunger pain like
a pull inward, so familiar
it feels like family.

They say we are made
of stardust, but today I
simply feel burned out.

Cuts and scars are there
to see--what healing happens
where eyes can’t see?

Sleep scans the crackly
radio dial of dreams,
voices in static.

Undone homework--what
is that sound? It’s the teacher’s
head hitting the board.

Her life was a bad
first draft, ripe for revision’s
heavy, cutting pen.

the morning starts with
a cold razor to the skin--
this is called normal?

The man sits in his
tower of gold and mirrors--
windows warp what’s real.

On the hill, bare trees
stand like shocks of thinning hair--
a man’s late winter.

A Letter to My Students

I don’t say it enough, but I care about you. Each of you. That’s why I’m here. It’s too much work to do it for the money, so there must be ...