Those docile headlights are in search of/ metaphor, this falling in drops and/ the windows

Morning./ A dull day./ Evening./ Night./ What unifies them?/ Violin sounds in the ionosphere

the waitress asks if I want anything else. I think/ Yes, I would love to have my eyes rounder

Snow outside/ where it belongs,/ but I'm still cold,/ listening to a furnace/ tell me

Fresh/ Silent and still/ Green/ but not only one kind of green/ emeralds, azures/ leafy

A fish’s eye/ Perhaps/ Is the circular look I need/ To gather just enough/ Edge

I never understood these hills in La-Carlota/ that drift into sleep, wailing as we

I spill the imagination/ From the sweet song of wakefulness/ I steal the dream/ From the

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