No child can understand why dandelion is a weed.

In the rosebush beside the sidedoor, a robin is making a space for a family.

I need yoga, I need ballet, I need mindful walks, I need time each day to calibrate my somatic being with the part of me that feels it exists from head-up and wrist-down.

I am riveted by a book whose only plot so far as I can tell is apocalypse…

…This is how your virginity
is taken from you. You get too hungry and then
you kill…

Does anyone wait well? Is this a skill one can learn… because with endless practice, I have not mastered it.

Marathon March Madness. Pisces Poems. Dreamy.

I do hope I become soon brave
enough to husband my twins, monstering
a poet-agonist such as the world
has never read…

It’s all you can do. The world is always
behind you, the catastrophe of time…

- Gregory Crosby

I wanted to get through to the bloody heart of the book, even if I had to dig with a chewed-up plastic spoon…

I have been swinging between poles of gratitude and forlorn-ness. What a strange word, old-fashioned, and yet forlorn with its rhyme with torn and lostness is the word that comes to mind. Little Bo Peep was forlorn. America is her.

I stay between get and grief. Radiance
is a dream I had of light. Even now
the days are shaving themselves down, thinner
and thinner, a prepubescent autumn…

before today was yesterday and yesterday was good. tomorrow could be excellent. today there is cabbage soup and a box of holiday to toss around the house like eyelash thread instead of tinsel.

A dunking worthy of a new baptismal sect.

“Every time you name yourself, you name someone else.”
― Bertolt Brecht