I never heeded the squeaks of the half-opened gate nor the kitchen clock tchhing that you were late.

The ferry gave way to a taxi and Led to a grubby room in yellow.

Pearls of sweat trickle down my forehead onto my nose and along the wrinkles of my mouth.

Arriving home he found her baggage gone And his three young children upon his hands.

I sit in a spot where the old Barn cuts out the least sky.

All the rage on the lake: supping. But it’s not my cup of tea, really.

The car shakes. Rocks dot the road like appointments.

Throughout life we have mossy wings, but no choice of the branch...

What people say when you’re not around, parading their overturned trees like candles in hand, sparkle explosions

I painted still lifes-- peonies and roses, until a romance blossomed, and I stepped into that ring of marriage when I stopped

Wild creatures flash stiletto hooves through the forest, glossy wings catch indigo light as night falls. At a dinner party submerged in leaves,

To stand barefoot upon the stoop takes nerve, When winter paints the land in frigid white.

Down by the lake, fireworks disturb the night, The bursts recall the bombs in desert lands;

I hear my children laughing in the garden, gazing at the moon, though years have faded away and only I remain here gazing at the moon.

It was a love come undone, no more heart cards in red. She would need to explain, fold story in a neat box.

By the time I was back the fruit was ready unflappably blue through cool pepper sheets

He loses himself in the river that sends a boy down the rapids that make a man,

We were poets, painters, always, in spite

It is no secret, sidewalk-strider, that all are not aligned, like you,

We’re 18 and 20, unbound, unfettered, gilded cages in the distance a mere mirage,