If I could fly to the star-freckled sky
on a bitter winter's night, I'd graze the moon...

I speak the summer, near the dusk
of the Atlantic, from the cove...

I can hardly stand to watch, most mornings,
her buttering crispy-black toast, scraping off...

Don't worry.
Don't let me make you forget...

I wanted to dip my hand
in the river, and blister my finger...

Your lips twitch, betraying the dream you're...
Your slow breath is choral to the soft rain...

The river tickles along its way
to kiss a lesser-spotted shore...

Ocher sunsets stretch
to exercise April nights...

I caught my poetry late at night
admiring himself in the bathroom mirror...

In glowering
wind, by rusty swings...

December must be tired
of being called upon, of being...

Why, your hair is forever a storm.
I do not own a mirror...