You’ve got mail

Seven seconds. The span of a breath. That’s how much time it took to open a letter not meant for me, to read what was written there in words that burned like mine never will.

That easily, seven seconds became seven minutes. Became seven days, seven weeks.

Seven years.


Um (Not that)



U and

(or some combi
Nation of the) two, nations being
one of the things that joins us and
two, we think

Two might just be the answer to
then we are gone

Acrostics. Can’t live with em, can’t get your friends to give you a decent damn prompt for one.



Dawn breaks over the city like an eggshell and for a moment the
languorous creaking machinery of humanity draws to a halt.
Interstitial roadways;
Veins of concrete;
Elevated trains; all
Recuse themselves from motion, a frozen
automaton one wind from sprung.
Now is poised between
clockwork and
exaltation. I open my hand.

Marking time


It is, as always, not quite midnight when I unweave myself from the tangle of Anna’s unbound hair over our shared pillow and take the spare blanket. If our days apart are marked by the predictions of a clockwork orrery, so our nights together have the congruity of a metronome and my ramblings are no more than the program of an automaton after all. Continue reading



I walked among the myrtle trees
when all the barren sky was flame.
When on the sand there stirred no breeze
beneath my tongue I held your name.

I swallowed air and bitter dust
and wondered once more why I came
to where the stones had turned to rust.
Beneath my tongue I held your name.

The taste of salt and honeyed wine
still filled my mouth, and just the same
as in the days when you were mine:
beneath my tongue I held your name.

Mashing up a couple prompts at YeahWrite this week – the microprose’s retelling of another story and the poetry slam, the kyrielle.



The child began to hum
like electricity through a wire
to vibrate and transmit information, alive

and not-alive
the way a bee will hum
against a window or a rabbit, in a wire

will still hop. The wire
tightens; the rabbit, thinking itself alive
will move against the bees’ drowsy summer-hum

If you hum a tune, the child or the rabbit will dance like a puppet on a wire, mimicking something alive.

Promises kept: a fable

“I eat Zebras,” Lion told the nervous herd on Monday, “but not today; I have had a wildebeest and am sated.”

“I like to eat Zebras,” Lion said Tuesday, “but not today; this rock is warm and I’m tired.” The zebras shrugged and kept grazing.

Wednesday there was one less zebra.


Moral: when someone tells you who they are, believe them.



I used to have a book that identified animal tracks in the snow:
the rabbit’s back-facing vault, the hawk’s sprawl, the dragging tail of a mouse,
all crisp as shadows under the full moon.

Books don’t prepare you for the way the moon
goes behind a cloud, mud settles, snow
drifts over the battle of hawk and mouse.

It’s not enough to know what the track of a mouse
should look like, or that even the new moon
makes a round imprint among the stars, a stony boot in fresh snow.

I looked for patterns in the snow; you traced the shape of the mouse in the moon.

We’re throwing down tritinas this week at YeahWrite – Stacie challenged me with snow, mouse, moon. Leave a comment or hit us up in the coffeehouse if you want three words to play along!