Writer, Actor, Dog-Walker
Morning Menthol in Five Hymns
I Your friends here think you have it all: and on a secret-sometimes (mornings when the wind is blowing the perfect amount
Without a Title
June took root in the same way you learned to scream but now it's fall and you're trying to sing. It slipped away from muddy lids like lifting a veil,
The Globe is Cracking, I'm Not Falling
I There is a 3% chance I'll find you here. But if in each pair of eyes I dip, I find 1/8 of you; I'll be there soon. II
i don't write love poems.
I don’t write love poems We didn’t bloom together the way we should have. We never eyed each other across neat soil; both self-conscious and self-righteous as we sipped the sun and, in quiet bursts, raced to touch the sky.
I’ve never stopped a heart- The poem should end here. It doesn’t. The sound of the levees breaking was quiet, I thought it would be bigger-