I think I saw you once
In another kid’s Easter basket.
Maybe it wasn’t you or wait

You realize, even as you start this
that it won’t end up as a sonnet—
and by “sonnet” I don’t mean just a poem

All right. Let’s hear it
for this fine figure of a
trout on every plate.

It is like drowning,
The water of the eyes spills back into the head
It coats the skull like honey

More than leaves, dust and wind
envelop the football game in the meadow.
It is an enormous, ill-defined ball of Artie tumbleweed

Eurydice’s Hairpin. Cassandra’s Curse.

There are the names of wildflowers
that come out just at night,

On a sunny morning a somebody discovers an official letter in his dwelling: it is lying on the breakfast table next to the cup. It is uncertain how it got there. Scarcely opened, it pounces on the reader with a demand:

The man on stilts 
lights his cigar
from the glow

Homage to those days
when you're up early and hysterical before noon.
When your deepest darkest doubts

The shape of loneliness is a hole
By definition, to be filled.

At the outer edges of the hole
The lizard of jealousy sits