The art of Paris/ Breathes in the Streets/ In the cafes and gardens/ And in the Bouquinistes/ Along

sometimes, in november’s backwaters,/ atlas hangs; a limp bleakness from/ monkey-bars

stylish serpent/ pointed as the writer/ whirls like minutes/ lagoons beg to trade/ a blurred

Upon stepping outside this afternoon/ I was delighted to find a little bird/ With comically

I like the rain/ like my birthday./ I like that there/ are small water ponds/ children can

On the mesas fossils bloom under moonlight./ Bone flower. Flesh flower. Vanishes at/ five

My backpack is the Pacific Ocean. Its color,/ despite its plainness, leaks layers of blues 

Have you ever seen/ a shooting star/ as it streaks across/ the night sky?/ It’s best to

Tough dirtied denim/ and worn out leather/ adorning your feet// the land squelches

I do not compare life to glass to be meek./ Glass may fracture or crack,/ but I have

for Daniel/ Near Lubbock, cotton/ fields become fields/ of snow./ A stave line with regular

Gray light sifts shabby/ through limp curtains/ A creak of bedsprings/ An adjusting pop

on the river we rowed under birches that touched the sky/ and sparrows chasing

I am sitting by the window now,/ and there is nothing to hinder/ my irrational thoughts

To some more than many, memory of yesterday/ is forth from a naysayer’s push-away

This time has no stars, not yet,/ only fog lights farther out, just on the lip,/ there where

i wonder if they know how the world ends -/ they with their flighty smiles and/ puffed-up

We drove in reverse the whole way. Backwards through The Town Overlooking the

Diving into boundless depths/ Embedded in a pair of gems/ Pocketed on his moony lens

Cool, cool is the night./ I walk the mountain highway/ on the narrow path/ the perforate white