Genre: Poetry

Across the Rock

The first time I left home was before I was born.
I was barely formed. A scrap. A sample, at best.

I was more my mother than me, then, 
I think.            We can’t remember.

The plane lifted my mother’s
body …

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Praise for the Porchbed

Praise for the porchbed is praise for SLEEP.
Wrapped in cricket and cicada-sound sleep.

Rapt in rain sleep. Worry and all-trouble erasing
sleep. Smoothed-out sleep.

Counting sheep and Bo Peep sleep.
One two three four five six seven
sleep and …

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Translating the Word for Home

 

A small city disappears in

the near-sighted dusk of a coastal winter.

Someone is walking home as I once did.

Someone is thinking as I did once

this is their neighborhood, their consolation.

Once I thought words could describe

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