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the making by taking away

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Four Brief Poems

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After her grief had subsided, the wife felt immediate relief. / Suddenly she was free to abandon or pursue loneliness


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served as it is/ among these friends. The frayed filaments/ tickle my chin and irritate my nostrils,


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koalas burning

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She's not a poet, but does she have to be? She comes to the reading to read the poems of her recently dead husband, for she made a vow: that she would read his work at an open mic. Now she is keeping her word. It's her way of keeping him alive or maybe it's his way of…

The Point Of It All

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He understood that people no longer read or thought deeply about things but continued to write anyway. He understood that Einstein's theory of relativity was proved correct during the world's longest eclipse of May 29, 1919 when photos of the Hyades star cluster…

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My poetry is bare, showing its pink and purplish imperfections and its injuries. I buy it a dress to hide its bruises, to ornate it a little, to make it smile. On its rather ugly and mishaped body, the dress looks comical, ridiculous, clumsy, like a bird with a broken wing.…

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The rain hammers the windows, an unorthodox pattern on a sad Sunday morning.

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It is a day of swallows and grasshoppers, of white clouds and suntanned arms. In the yellow field wheat ears burn, lit by fantasies. One of wheat, one of rye. Summer love, holiday love is in the air. Under the thickness of the harvest, their roots search, call each other.…

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I have become interested in Carracci / Ludovico Carracci