Wounded in the Process

no- 

thing too 
in 

significant— 

.

how 

. 

even this small 

sliver 


working it- 
self out, 

heals. 

Unrequited

Had you asked me 
Against all odds 

I’d have been the first 
To answer yes and the last 

To wager I was wrong 
Even from the start. 

Life's Understudy

Moreover 
.
You act as if 
You’re standing 
On a mountain 
.
On top of which 
The lowly mole does not 
Understand your role. 

Pure Ars Poetica

(with apologies to Kilmer and MacLeish) 


Genealogically speaking, 
A poem ought to be whatever 

A poet conceives 
A poem should be— 

But never a mongrel barking 
Its ass off up the wrong tree.

Up from the Minors

These big time poetry leagues are a bitch, 
But you’ve learned to slide and pitch well; 

Now let's see you slip in your best 
Curve and keep watching 

As the better part of you flies
Sailing out of the park straight 

Back to hell. 

Sanctum

solitary 

blue 


and 

white 


chapel 

in 

pied 

meadow 


genuflecting 

black 


bird 

making

a

bee


run

to 

ward 

it.

Dusk

The opposite of dawn, of course; 
Another less common 
Name is crepuscule but I bet 
Few English speakers know that 
Or that it also means gloam. 
.

Silent before yet another 
Sunset, I suppose it dawns 
Upon many a man 
That one’s vocabulary,
No matter how dazzling,
Can never be a match 
For the unspeakable splendor 
Of one more dying day.