The Bush
The extraordinary arms of the bush.
Trap music still echoing: the singing
birds another cover. The conscious hush.
The Bellbird
The full moon, glowing at dusk,
and the audacious bellbird is calling out from his tree,
so small yet so loud.
At the Love Feast
Father’s special homily gave Mother
and the choir some rest. I leaned
across Delphina’s lap beneath her arm.
Audio, Awards, Chapbook Prize, Chapbooks, Poems
In America
“Why don’t you go to Japan and ask the cats?” I said to the TSA agent when she asked if
What to Say to Those Who Think You’re a Fool for Choosing Poetry
Tell them yes.
Tell them poetry is what chose you.
Tell them
you had a night, once,
just as they did
White Rabbit
Late, I rush down the stairs. Distraction, tiredness, hunger, an error in muscle-memory, whatever the cause, I miscalculate the steps. My foot dangles, leather-clad toes seeking, yearning for something not there.