Life is Beautiful (audio only)
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when my bunny
jumps up on the couch beside me
and offers her small skull
to be stroked. Often I’m reading, lost
in the cold world of Anna Karenina
or seeing The World According
to Garp. But her world is the only
world, this couch, these pillows,
the rug set down on the bamboo
flooring, her running onto the smooth
wood and sliding, like a child,
under the kitchen table to hide,
or jumping up on a chair to survey
2025
When you’re cold—November, the streets icy and everyone you pass
homeless, Goodwill coats and Hefty bags torn up to make ponchos—
someone is always at the pay phone, hunched over the receiver
spewing winter’s germs, swollen lipped, face chapped, making the last
tired connection of the day. You keep walking to keep the cold
at bay, too cold to wait for the bus, too depressing the thought
2006
What is a wound but a flower
dying on its descent to the earth,
bag of scent filled with war, forest,
torches, some trouble that befell
now over and done. A wound is a fire
sinking into itself. The tinder serves
only so long, the log holds on
and still it gives up, collapses
2024