An inveterate die-hard listmaker The Buddha

She lived before the lighthouse rose. She loved before the library

Blind, as a tick hovers for its next meal, I hunger after you, leap to your smell,

we witnessed fallen men, drifting from wet alleys with their bundles— in Cohen’s rasping hallelujah

Jinni makes a point of showing her nieces and nephews equal attention. She plays no favorites. That way,

It was the kind of day that death should not visit, should be respectful enough, of life, to stay tucked

the travelers disembarking carry their possessions and a look upon their faces

Two kids tested fate and broke it in the process. Well, one kid in legitimacy, another one in essence. And the two of them had found that they could form a perfect balance...

Facebook has solved that pesky problem of mortality. Most of my dead friends seem to keep having birthdays.

According to my Baptist neighbors, I am docketed for torture from my demise until the heat death of the universe.

Say it isn’t so, Momma, rock me slowly, ease the pain. Wipe the teardrops from my eyes,

We whispered about the artist when she moved into the storefront across the street, the huge paintings in the windows hiding her studio

Forests of green flank slate mountains obscured...

The dark summer clouds are roaring and hanging. She dreamed again of the white-Walled room…

borage tomato maracuya pepino dulce and lemon home is an island, a corner of peace, my small imperfect paradise and the city roars outside, blistering under the sun helicopters coil the sky searching for a man on the run chopping the air the children bewildered they paralyze borage tomato maracuya pepino dulce and lemon my nerves strain, suffering abounds, a terror spun from violence and gangs and neighbors not having what would suffice and the city roars outside, blister

helping a friend with a bed out the door of their rental. the van parked in rain on the corner. their home like ants with a grasshopper being taken to bits. biking the quayside and toward a small house out in eastwall. all pieces about, and leaned on in corners, of their lives (I don’t see them often since they moved out to here). a garden as messy as a turned over pizzabox – beautiful to leave when you leave. they are selling the bed and have promised delivery – it's the bit

Join me, my wonder, palm to palm a walk in the wind with me under palms or pines or firs, such mercy skin to skin, a thirst holding fingers and palms our rhythm, our breathing. Walk with me through ribbon grass and leaves palm to palm before you eyelash me, flash me your blue-eyed smile. Feel it in your palm when crunching gravel, balancing on logs— come walk with me. Feel the quiver in palms that slide above the forest floor, our music our silent hymns. The wind is

There were times as a kid in the park behind the factory, across from the railroad tracks, I would hang around with friends attempting giant swings on the crude pipes set up as a high bar. Giant swings! With a mixture of dirt and gravel and broken pieces of glass underneath tearing holes in our clothes as we wore gaps in the day; immortal daredevils. *** The tiny two bucket seat sports car once defied intimacy, taunted with exposed breasts across the hand brake, Cathy Carol M

Tree leaves clatter on the attic and wake you up this morning, that might be fragile otherwise. A tile rattles – not in your brain, and geese are flying in a V or A, a cloud collides with the sunlight. A cyclist on the river dike makes a u-turn, left or right. He asks me for resilience in limbs and mind. The yard path is full of my gold, sees the beech from which it falls. “At my feet,” says a human being. Ah, if I had those – who speaks? – I’d be happy to play games.

Late afternoon. Subarctic shoreline. Sun nowhere to be seen. Beneath an opaque white sky...