Burial Ground

The dead lie above ground beneath a stone wall under a row of skulls.


She was within airspace of all my words, hunted them in the Arabic script of bats.


The grass flails as if something frantic were trying to escape:

Delusional Episodes

I cannot find my mother in the dark.

The Pond

Poetry from Confrontation 119.

Our Little Piece of Sky

Poetry from Confrontation 119.

Saint Albert of the Asses

Poetry from Confrontation 119.

The Unraveling Wind-up

There is sand on the sheets of the bed in this room. No matter.

Dusk/the piano

There is a pause. You consider what I’ve said, then you begin playing Für Elise. I am lonely in a way no nearness can alter.

In Joseph’s Kitchen

My friend Joseph, in his plaid shirt, old jeans & slippers, tells me he’s studying Heidegger again.

The Night She Brought Home the Belladonnas

my wife told me to go fuck myself. I detested the closed petals, the hidden corollas folded like a carapace, not letting the light beam in . . .


At my age one becomes a bird. The doctor is grave about my bones, so empty that a narrow light shines through.