The Blue Pitcher

that which may be filled and emptied

Poem up at The American Journal of Poetry

Check it out.

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To sleep

All that glitter

It ain’t gold

Encompassed

Our middle-aged bodies
Liven in the dusk

Thanksgiving (1)

I dreamed I owned
A beautiful apron

Among that which is made (3)

The blood on my hands was

The blood on my hands was

The blood on my hands was

The blood on my hands was

The blood on my hands was

The blood on my hands was

The blood on my hands was

The blood on my hands was

The blood on my hands was

The blood on my hands was

The blood on my hands

Of the Too Much Muchness

Handmade shark fin mooncake
strewn among the warheads

Solitude

 

“The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be.”
–John Ashbery

Late July

Sandy razor clams

Rinsed by hand in the warm sea

Again summer is coming

Again summer will go

Already I’ve forgotten you

Translucence (10)

but no one counts the sky

do they?

Translucence (7)

you don’t feel anymore
says the book