Tuesday, September 4, 2018


PEI Morning Dew in August
The green and wet belies the drought
cracking the lips of the city to the south.
This garden at the shoulder of the road stretches on carelessly
rambling beyond my view and past the curve of the road, feral, untended.

Discarded coffee cups and crumpled cigarette packs,
rough mulch at the base of mad clumps of wildly blooming goldenrod and bullrush grasses and dandelions.

As I turn the wheel and leave this leafy lane, the harvest bounty of this roadside ditch fades from my thoughts,
graying like the damp memories of my years before the city.

And once again that thrilling song of tires on pavement
draws me ever southward to lights and noise
to sun and rock and the arid rivers of asphalt that flow across it all, pulling.

But oh, I would stay a while in this weed-strewn spot and
sip dew from a clover.

Friday, February 9, 2018


My body, under his fingers
finds its true form,
meat on bone. A slab
of flesh on a table.
His hands dig and push
more meat tenderizer 
than tender manipulation.
I lie here thinking of sinew and bone and muscle.
Being flesh and wondering
about the spark that ignites, the breath that flows
the ideas made word and thought
in the meat on the table.