Not everything has fallen that you’re trying to pick up.

You are a child over the broken plate that hasn’t hit the floor just yet.

Would your fingers bleed to save the china?

To keep mother from scorning you for being clumsy?

Let it drop and shatter into a thousand pieces. 

It’s only a plate.

When birds fall from the nest

Two people stand

face to face

but neither see


They are looking

at the back

of their own head


feeling with the back

of the hand

and never the palm


It is not a tender world

It is not a tender place

for a heart like mine



I saw a baby Starling

the broken winged thing

and not a word to sing


I saw a baby human

the unbreathing thing

not a word


I saw myself

in somebody’s eye

but the stranger walked by


It is not a tender world

It is not a tender place

for a heart

While learning kanji

Are you waiting for me to say

that all of my stones are made of

silk sewn Kanji?


The 20,000 symbols that you want to read in me are in the dictionary of a long history of places I cannot always recall by shape or brush stroke.


you have that complex design for patience and pain and love in your own sewn silk letter form and i read you with a persistence.


We are in the middle of an ancient language.  A thread pulling our mouths open and close together in a center


sliding through all of our points of contact and weaving through us a pattern that we can only discern


by laying still and listening to the other breathe.


In the lamp light I painted your jaw line with my finger tip and wrote your name with a practiced brush on the pulse of my wrist


and I wonder if you felt that stone roll away from me and return as a new word like hope.

The homeless on a warm spring day



The gypsies keep coming back to me.  They need me to hold their hearts.  They say it is because they are always picking up what others drop.  Invisible somethings

that I cannot always see.


It is incomprehensible the way they smile with their eyes.  And the way they carry a small bent cart stacked high with more invisible things.  I wonder why the thin dogs drag along beside their dusty skirts instead of hunting rabbits.  They tell me they are loyal dogs.


The gypsies are at home in their homelessness.  Their hands are filled when they walk with music.  But I sit behind my car’s window quiet as my own emptiness trying not to join them.


After they walk away jingling like birds and rain,  I’m not  sure they were ever really there.

The Roofer

The Roofer

The lackluster of shingle and tar slides its way through the roofer’s callused handprints like a stretched and spent paycheck.

It travels in opacity through his skin and up nerves on a length of unraveling patience before reaching through the base of the skull to the eye’s sleepy cradle to pull them shut.

He wipes the sweat from his face and turns back to his work as the faintest breeze reminds him to stay awake.

Jack’s River 6

She splits my side open to execute an old will.


The river wasn’t meant to stay the same and i can see the tributaries in my palm changing shape.


We are wild children,  the river and i,  set loose by cold rains and singing hallelujahs for the white rage!


I will swim here in a months time but for now i cannot slip my toes in for her purging.