Regretfully yours,

The note read,

“I’m sorry.”

I found

your white sock

tucked into a ball


underneath my bed

last night-

I had already

thrown the mate



birch branch laden with ice

dips heavily to the ground

as the crow alights


A spent dandelion-
One wisp still clinging
to the bald-headed stalk.
I blow again, and a third time…
before dropping it as I walk away.

Untitled (for now) 

Just after Christmas

Pussywillows are budding

As if spring has come


4:30 a.m.

Your arm anchors me in bed

My thoughts drifting free

Of course, I’ll call you Leonard

your soft hairs
fine and tender
bend across belly-
blond, supple grasses
waving before the wind
of my breath

concave shadows
where bones build fortresses
sinew presses upward
like stone, and
velvet softness
cradled in its hairy nest
slumbers peacefully
awaiting the rooster’s crow

your seed thunders,
pours through my crevices,
until my body is a desert,
run dry for you.

In homage to the poetry of Leonard Cohen


Robins scour for worms
Criss-cross trails in dew-laden grass
Half a blue eggshell
Your lips warm on my shoulder
Asleep, I curl into you



night, the word drawn out
in soft whispers, intimate
rasps against your neck