The eternal teenager thanks G-d

You have given me
words to play with

That most malleable
and windy gift

Modern pastoral

Every time a bug
smacks bridge, cheek, or lid,
flies into my mouth,
I breathe a sigh of relief

River of gladness

It’s late. I’ve tried heroic
measures: shaking my wrist out,
lining up words and treasures

Jetsam on paper, harder than thought

What I long to say’s like water,
can’t be caught. Settles in low places,
can’t be found

Slakes thirst of trees, deep

The citizens of imagination speak

Our nourishment is fire is flood
the zephyr freedom of a perfect line
world wonders from the poet’s inner empire
a bee-like song
hymning the nectar of a hidden flower
no food illegal

O, life-blood language!
Subtly releasing us
from death of matter

Recognition (for W.)

Your surprising enthusiasm
a sister to mine
in a strong light


Dreamy images don’t
make babies.

Otherwise I’d be
cooking breakfast for a crowd.

though hungry at times,
are more portable.

It is a good life, this.

Still, sometimes:


You write a coded message

Time slows

I suddenly see all that’s wrong with the world
and I’ve lost what is right

Your algorithm is intricate

You start shouting

But I don’t understand
what, who, or where

Only sensitive information
and something amiss

photo: Andrew Haley