Winter Holds A Grudge



Winter holds a grudge: buried deep in the earth
It will never be over

We thought March would be the line in the snow:
But the air grew colder

He scratched notes on the window panes, white cracks,
A cold signature

Returns like a curse, comes back a like a cough
I couldn’t get over

Looking out, footprints marked their rue
In the silent powder

And shivering trees turn their branches back,
Look over their shoulders





No bruises show



They found my teeth in the silty riverbed:

Separate, yet still gritted.


Through empty sockets, you can clearly read

My eyes are rolling;


See? My jaw, smashed to an everlasting

Never mind.



I wanted to write something short and simple, about uncovering the skull of a victim: not of any specific crime, certainly not for any crimes that have ben tried; a victim of her partner, and her place in society. My alternative title was “Not Woke,” the preserved, sleeping head of a person who didn’t wake up fast enough. 



July Eyes



closed-eyelid colours, beating with the sunlight,

dappled space, the warm red resting out –

the song of breathing, heard outside your head




Still experimenting with briefer, less structured forms. And longing desperately for summer. 


why dont u just—



Well, maybe she would. After all

the encouragement, the touches in corridors,

messages in her desk: maybe she just might…


the talk had talked, and made it true: the songs

they sang for her were proof, like an Act of God,

the writing on the wall, and on her locker,


the paint in her hair. Perhaps, at last, she would.




Designs for Life


All artists wish for

a blank canvas. Clear enough

to reorder emptiness from drawn experience,

subtle shades, their own landscape,

forests murmuring out distantly;

features flourishing like asphodel.


The architect sees lines: the clean

structures , and order of light,

modes parallel, forms of

the constructed life.


The musician wants movements,

seasons lived across colours, depth

of wind and distant water, leading to

a lasting resonance.


The poet hopes for one

final, perfect word,

then silence.




O Pupper, My Pupper


But O, I long to wend this weary night,

All stratagems and schemes of woe to scupper

Met at homestead door by hurtling sight

Of he, most playsome and adventurous pupper!


To frolic fulsome in the honest throes

Of fluff at haste: prevails, the boundful woofer,

Chasing tails and reckless overflows

Of love with such as he, the faithful floofer.


How did you learn to snug? How came the Lord

To shape the cast, your form to cultivate:

And into this such endless huggles poured,

To render countless cuddles animate?


O pupper, scuttle scritches ‘cross the floor:

To hark approaching pupper, evermore.




I was asked by one of my followers, in exchange for a quantity of wine, to write a Shakespearean sonnet, Whitman-esque in dramatics, on the subject of doggos. It was perhaps the most fun I’ve had writing anything in 2018 so far. 





drawing lips on your face, like

the final touch to the canvas:

real self-portrait, the red ideal,

hung against white, and waiting.




I have so many friends who are self-taught makeup artists. They never fail to amaze me.