Cope’s Gray

before the nights grow
thick with heat
and damp
tear out the song of frogs
from my ears
their colloquy dropping
that clang and shatter
the silence of
years passed without
and drown out the
memory of our
conversations rich with

Untitled Dream

the marble relief of a man and horse in flight
could be written into a grand epic

an old villager heard my thoughts and said
it’s best to rethink it

some forgotten battle alone and outnumbered
running in retreat

the steed decided to turn galloping to the fight
running over the heads of their enemy

their heroic escape cut short with an
accidental leap into a boiling vat

the town’s embarrassment the old man said
the only document a proverb

something about never allowing your horse
an opportunity to make decisions

or to never name your son Kenneth
he forgot which


"A Cocoon", 2004, Painting, oil on panel. Nikolay Sazhin.

How quickly the empty house began to decay
Without a soul to breathe within

Standing water around its foundation revealed
Decades of lonely tears

Crippled walls crash in and that timeworn
Way groans out in agony

The burrow vanquished, in its place
Will rise a new home

Oh, but the razing is neither death nor destruction
To a hollow, broken facade

The suffering is metamorphosis, beloved
You are being reborn



I was listening to
the song
stirring coffee with
a spoon in spoon
thought of my dream
nestled from
the night before
it was gold
and I found it
or stole it
how it glittered in
my thieving eyes
but wasn’t I caught
with it all in
my hands stained
gold and shaking
someone had to lose
and so it goes
stirring my coffee
I thought of you and
thought of
you robbed
of rose gold hair
and how she must’ve
and glittered in
your eyes
a song played
once again
over an empty cup
still stirring

What Lonely Place

what lonely place
greets her
with unimpressive walls
and carpet that
holds tight to a memory
of scent

the cat sleeps so
she speaks
to the fly instead and
tries to wrap her
mind around winged sisyphus
and hills

an old chair groans
anyone’s companion
for tea remains
reserved seating for the weight
of motes

there is a sound
to the cricket singing
she cups her hand
and puts it outside to find

Swirl Cone

Quit talking to myself about 50 miles back.
Wasn’t much in the mood to hear what I had to say.
But a little while up the road, I did stop by that
Soft-serve ice cream shack.
You know, the one I love so much? Yeah, well
I bought a swirl cone to say sorry for not listening.


The self-inflicting wound of bale
the also-ran
embraced in mucky baggage
like music
while you were good all along
is forgetting
the lyrics
of your very own song