MID-FEBRUARY, LATE AT NIGHT

I have stood

in this place a long

time waiting for

shame to produce

the wild, tender

thoughts I’ve called

up in the past.

Where is the book

I’ve not written?

Where is the house

and the barn I saw

when I slept then

wrote about when I woke?

60-WATT BULB

I am a servant to this city. I love each single star

just for the pleasure of being able

to see it, the air being what it is sometimes.

The moon pulls at the hem of my sleep shirt

and, in the same way, the kitchen light

in the apartment across pulls at the same hem.

UNTITLED GWAWDODYNS

Unsettling, sad as it may be

All rivers don’t run into the sea

They all wish they did or could or might do

Running never seems to work for me.