Whenever I see you walking beneath the trees, I/ recall the year we planted the orchard, imagining the

If time could sleep for an hour,/ Perhaps the world would experience some peace./ If time could rest for

In a quieter universe, time is made up/ conversations with unamputated/ trees, itinerant rain

We’ll wade in Lake Mead’s mouth// a mortal-made pit of restless water/ & talk about faces forming

My grandmother’s eyes were a Christmas tree./ I look for her in the forest each year,/ pleading with the

They show me a ghastly mirror./ A dwindling reflection/ From a distant day ahead,/ When I am rendered

The skies have darkened/ And lightening has swept/ Across the arched dome/ Puffing thunder like

Through the Isles of perdition/ And the abyss of loss/ Through the dark days of confusion/ And the twilights

…your idle thoughts will wed the/ wistful wind and your sorrows will/ merge with winter’s shadows.…

Flowers burst into colour/ beautiful little flowers;/ bright, pretty/ whimsical, temperamental

Of course, people tend to forget all the dreams about outer space/ colonized by multihearted beasts.

The dwarf flyers dogfight,/ Emerald backs edging/ To buff, figure eights and/ Double barrel rolls

Outward light, but the curtain’s too heavy for sun—/ In this hotel room we sit because the chairs back

The closest color/ to the stolen pot of gold/ isn’t indigo.

If you walk to the village of Porthgain,/ as much a cluster of cottages as village/ (although it has a very busy

Around midnight I had finally given up trying to turn the stale words and phrases on the screen of my

I’ll write a verse about my love tomorrow./ The moon gloats tonight, glowing in its fullness

This poem is the bowl of my sorrows/ Woven in a cascade of doom/ When I was dancing to the tune

Realized his house was not level/ when he cooked his sunny-side up eggs/ their yolks staring back at

Outer space images,/ flying fractals,/ exploding stars,/ reach sharp shards/ into me, bursting/ through