Low, cool moan of train
curving through this
sleeping town
cold as coins.
wet as tears.
Going is an equation –
an answer with no questions
I’m a brook gurgling
beyond the tracks,
emitting beams of lonely light
Exploratorium
The children salivate when they see me,
a mother,
and dream of their own.
This is the exploratorium, she tells me.
The room is filled with grinning toys.
and the dolls go ignored because it is hard to play a mom
when you can’t reach yours.
Peace
frigid submarines slice the sea,
slit peace open like a package
but there is nothing inside
but a long wait for the tide to come in
Sweet Fire
Sweet fire chills in my bedroom
cool and
collecting dust.
The jealous window watches me,
tantalized by the molten heat.
Glass in love with fire,
melting in shame and desire.
It happens every day.
I stoke the fire.
Between panes the glass drools.
My Love
I see my face in silver water
My voice was in the bottle you broke.
It dissolved in the vacuous air.
My love you skipped like a stone on the sea.
I see my face in the water silver
My voice broken bottle.
This dissolved air color.
My love to skip a stone over the sea.
I see my face in the water silver
My voice broken bottle.
It dissolved air color.
save my love for a rock on the beach.
Pieces of Me
The dust stalks me like a black cat.
Every bleating town I go to
a chunk of me falls off.
My breath smells of earthquake.
Drunk my eyes tremor.
On the trip home I will find where everyone left me,
see blocks of myself in ditches.
Micropoetry
Wino
The grape’s spirit is vengeful,
will wear red to my funeral
and hit on my husband.
The grape’s spirit
will liberate my fine linen
from my lines,
my signature from the language.
Symbols
She is a wind rippling through
a field of water,
the flowers gasping to stay above the plastic surface.
The world can blow away like a wish.
She is a wish of piano fingers
and leathery song.
The touch of her mind on the water
designs waves that don’t care who they drown.
He is an island,
crunched and crumbling.
Seven sisters treat the water to something
Red
New
Foul.
I Was Never Mild
Divine qualities.
Sparkling waters.
I thirst for sour songs that make me salivate.
Born to rise,
I was never mild,
a lava rolling over lives like a yawning lover in bed,
first one side than the other.
In the end I wasn’t a rock or a cliff.
I was mud.
Miniature Moon 