I think of the buffalo in winter,/ flesh full,/ the winter long,/ pacing slowly/ through snow, ice

I can see where I will be,/ leaving what I did on the/ surface, taking who I am,/ after the

This string on my thumb/ reminds me to buy a birthday card for my mom./ This string pulling

The harvest looks good today/ un-blighted/ so we know that we shall eat/ this winter/ and there

A man born into a checkerboard life/ soaks more suds than he spends,/ goes ahead

I 'visit' India now./ A cricket cricks and a firefly fires as I walk up to my/ Heavy wooden door

At home steamy days give way/ to a welcome chill/ the coolness wraps itself around us

Lilac, not Lavender lit the air./ The untrained nose might mistake/ one purple scent for the other.

september fifteenth, and i wake up trembling,/ frozen fingers and weepy eyes./ yesterday

The sun waltzed across/ the planks of the deck/ peeking from between/ the dancing

The boy, age 13/ battling leukemia 3 times since he was 3,/ asks the transplant doctor,/ “What

Anyone can add/ a piece, and// many have, the/ bowl is full —// of crumpled stubs/ and

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