A Praying Mantis clover to bright emerald green landed on my sleeve and lingered as I worked in my hay field.

Say say say say say say says our I-I-I-me tunes:

...the arc of rigging game bends toward the powerful.

Love to everyone.In spite of painterschest deep in the wheat fields. Of poets inthe belfry. Bird flu.Love to everyone.In spite of rats asbig as dogs in NewYork city. Or blueplastic bags stuck onbranches. Whales beachingthemselves. Everyone'sgone to the moon. Loveto…

Figures are a strip tease.

I killed it. Didn't even relocate it back to its outdoor home, as I had work to do. This is being human.

Meagan rides the subway with perfect lips and deep thoughts, looking moody out the smudged window like an actress in a Sofia Coppola film.

Between chapters, he trained my dog, Buster. He taught him to fetch bottle caps, roll over for no reason, and to play dead whenever someone raised their voice

Desire, nervousness and your power, in even your slightest look, I find it so addicting, harboring transformative impossibilities.Is this, I wonder, all that can really happen — wishing, dreaming? Consuming, I can't leave or lose it, not knowing, can't stop thinking…

Quite out of nowhere, my grandfather appeared to me, smoking his pipe and sipping his gentian liqueur. With myself drawing an edelweiss, sitting beside him, my hands and my heart warming themselves at the stove, my feet in large lamb fur-lined boots. Born in the mountain,…

Sometimes words are carved in stone, but you won't find these in this poem

“Time to check out,” I tell myself, looking at sailboats and surfers from the open window of my hotel room. I inhale minty incense and gaze down on a dark-skinned woman in a sombrero beneath towering palm trees. Laid out before her on a folding table ar

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The man with the truncheon emerged at the monorail car's forward connecting doorway. One moment the space was vacant, a faux metal canvas for the dazzling sunlight streaming through a grime-encrusted window. When next Theseus Harrow looked up from his seat the dark-suited…

It's house has seen every day and every night From its windows stars are born and die

I walked into a novel and sat down on a rock. The language was distressed and full of cyclones and swells. I could smell embalming fluid and folklore. Everywhere I went there were doorknobs, escalators, and clocks. Objects of all genre overflowing with prose. I stood at …

I decided this time I’m going right to the end.