Earthworms have no eyes, but they do have light receptors and can tell when they are in the dark or in the light.        —...

Atoms free their energy by collision. The release of luminance. Everything there is must owe its blessed existence to the crunch of...

Come, and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastick toe —John Milton, from L'Allegro Surrounded by their chatter, we note we haven’t ...

I mime a tender cradling with my arms. You counter with a backward slap to the air. I stoop to tie my shoe. You fling yours to the wall....

A patriot has the duty to salute. Stand at every anthem. Rifle at the ready.   Now begin to count the stripes & stars stitched into your...

You lament the amount of hair that’s on your brush, say it’s more than what is left upon your head. More grey than chestnut brown. More...

Before I start my poem I need a potent cup of coffee— colossal extra-grande. But there’s nothing poetic in that. Any editor worth their...

Your pages from the printer are crumpled into balls, set aflame. You call them stars and name them: Antares, Betelgeuse, Sirius and...

A tickle in your throat precedes a cough. The microbes in your mist, buoyed like the beat from a brazen hummingbird— its wings about...

I despise the word blurb. Its approximation to burp. Its truncated BS on the back,   of that book you feigned was great, essential,   a...

On the day I pass away, I’ll say I’m out for a leisurely swim.   I’ll be decked in a scuba suit, for a corpse that’s been in the water is...

A million candles burning for the love that never came You want it darker We kill the flame —Leonard Cohen Light is most magnificent...

With your hands wrist-deep in the black of loamy soil, you tell me your infant daughter died at break of dawn, on a day that our star...

It makes no sense at all that Keats and Yeats have never rhymed.   I don’t mean that each had never used   the form in poems,   I mean...

Hear this: a puffin is not a baby penguin, despite my decades of thinking it so.   I cannot be angry at the puffin, its countenance of...

It’s not   the highest mountain but a jar of pickle juice.   It’s not a molten bed of burning coals, but the gulp of sour dill, the brine...

The cemetery’s sexton warned you shouldn’t plant a thing December 1st, that nothing can survive its chilling gales,   this numb we think...

the medium is the message           —Marshall McLuhan   My cat likes to saunter across my keyboard, spelling some unknowable truth that a...

Every time you blink it’s a different story—   a character who morphs as winds allow,   first a gelding in the ether missing love ; a...

We think that we’re romantic since we dine in candlelight—   here in our apartment, not just lunch and dinner, but with the crack of a...