From toile to étoiles—
a masthead moving
across cloudless
peach-black skies.

from ‘Puritanisms’


I confess thoughts
I do not want thoughts.
I confess words
I spoke to think
words in others what I cannot think
in myself:

Wilderness, bewilder.


Proud where I should feel shame
Shameful where I should feel pride

Great, gray goose
The one-strand river has no other side


This diary meant      for other eyes
Is how I am naked      when I arrive

This pudency is the selfish blank

This name      a scent


Thumbprint of a landstorm,
redbrowns pocketed
in folds of sediment,
rough bedrock tendons:
A canyon bed takes
earth’s loose deposition.

Glass Tears

I stopped working
for the Sad Catalog
years ago, but I keep
finding the perfect items
to feature in it.

On Vanishing Acts

The magician says watch closely.
The lover says close your eyes.

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