prayer kneels down

wind builds a nest

for the passenger you carry without knowing

 

There's been a poem published in NOON 17 & 18.

 

why does the clearest water

stop a knife from bleeding

when did my soul begin to repeat

the migration of cranes

how does one gather seeds

that have drifted into another day

how much earth must i lose

to wear the moon's white shoe

 There's been a poem published in Right Hand Pointing, Issue 141.

where is the river that will cleanse my oceans of sorrow

 

 

in a world that renounces moon, wind :: how shall my forests sway

 

will remember more than i knew

is called to a different world

burns like a leaf in autumn

 

shall the speed of light see my face

standing falling naked without speaking without hearing the whisper

 

where will they scatter the blue dust of earth

how many others afraid of night have thieved for this criminal moon

can i find the way out of summer by mapping a monarch's wing

 

 

leaning into the wind :: i am examined for wings

 

moon undressed        the man i lost        looked at naked me

should i delight in the occasion or search for another chaos

should i feed the mist

should i flood

who else sweeps their garden to see what a whisper sees

how deep into my life has morning pressed its thorn

the leaf falling through my shadow is also my shadow

can you recall the first poem to see you

why is a luna moth in eclipse
beyond my grasp

how did the smell of rain arrive on earth

without a body i could fall :: into the eyes of the living

the home prepared for my only arrival :: is all i shall leave behind

the rose that should die :: let me in

the body the bough :: where i learn to write with snow

my gardens won't keep out the cold

how lonely to distill bees from their honey

i will not wear snow above a whisper

i will fill my tomb by living on earth

i will have gone the great distance bound in one skin

breath as a measure of time :: my redwood rises above

another beginning i will never leave :: this killing spring

the garden is my progress through a seed

i feel i have become too many to go on waiting

starting a poem is the way i see her face

illness in the weeds could become a way to live and dream

a black daybreak for those whom we bury

the sky took my life to explain that nothing flew away

by what thread will i live when the sun unravels

may the origin of leaves remember its time within me

only your mother when she was young
and the world nowhere in sight
yet changed

are the missing pages of my shadow :: poet or priest

inside the dying of my apple tree
the sky is cold
the earth is green

moon lies in its bed :: staring into the fire

understands what i do not :: stops the knife from bleeding

crossing cold fields i am part of the sun

to bring the wind what it listens for :: how many dreams are needed

fields of dark sky sink away gathering the capsized rain

as a child i often laughed though the house would later burn down

nothing in the sky that points to my death

just a glimpse of the pine that will take my place

your glow is the moon in an ocean of its own

just dunes dreaming beside me :: it feels easy to be the sea

afterlife in the middle of the night, i hear silence arranging a troubled sea

everything i love is where no one has walked

then i felt your spirit twirl the leaves in a place where the world is thin

through a hole in the wind you hand me :: the yellow dress of the sun

how do i explain my death without touching your body

stone as smooth as the fate of the moon rolling out of the sea

white face of the moon on a separate blue path

whose flight is ever finished before the sky grows old and opaque

there are many broken lines i see in a single living tree

waking the mountain 

an unpublished collection of monostich

one white bone and all of november to light

an old hollow tree is the walk from sky to dream

my day ends listening to wings

wearing down bit by bit until i'm morning dew

working at this desk    my dust all around

how shall my fields escape the corn

sitting alone at the darkening of the day points the way

my skies are too many to bury

making poems more possible if there are shadows in your hands

snow must come down until it ceases to remember

we are here to weigh true darkness for any taint of light

where fog rakes its milky tines :: weighs nothing