Country Morning, 2018

“Enjoy the fresh air,” he said

after lifting the window above the bed 


A trail of mountain breath  

snaked its way around the room 

like toothpaste on a morning tongue. 

Peppermint tickled the backs of our lungs 

as our minds filled with something new.

We pulled the covers around us

bracing for a chill 

and then slept like the unborn. 

The nothing sound of stars aging,

mountains posturing,

and seeds sowing

secured a peace 

that was just barely broken by a drop of dew

giving birth on the window…

Followed by the new born cry of a crow —

the youth of a country morning,

like a gift we’d never outgrow.

Ready to Fall

Where the leaves once were, is light now 

waking us up only a few moments before we're meant to.

We stir, isolated tangos with the sheets, 

evening out the night's flattening on our cheeks.

This way, now that.

Finally, braiding our limbs together

before facing the kettle.

Awake, but not ready.

Bare, but not naked.

We sip towards the day, sharing a meek exchange.

This way, now that. 

Finally, resting our foreheads on each other,

as the blush from last night fades into the day.

Awake, but not ready.

Bare, but not naked.

Where the leaves once were, is light now.



With the morning apparent on only your side of the bed,

I am the shady side of a Brooklyn street —

snug brownstones, like teeth after braces.

From the chilly pavement, and with obvious frown lines,

I enjoy a brighter view

than you.

And when you wake, with mid-March in the corners of your eyes, 

I wait, stalemate, for a sign of an opening gate


The Weather

I wear the scarf
your temper weaves 

I watch you leave
turn into brown

I rake up piles
your ashes on the ground

Excerpts from Wanderlove: Lust, Loss & Moving Costs 2015. Full manuscript available upon request:

1720 Rodney Street, Los Angeles, CA

Our mouths couldn’t find the words,

so we drew them on the walls.

In black and blue on stucco,

we mapped out our losses

and let them sit like braille.

Later we’d run our fingers

over each other’s topography.

In the heavy hush

we could find alternate routes

to get to familiar places,

but we couldn’t stay long.



Bodies like homes,

lived-in, warm like wombs,


Packing peanuts, masking tape,

broken glasses, cracking plates

we move

through our twenties 

like a band of gypsies,

taking trinkets, leaving

notches on heartposts.

A need to drive by past lives

to check up on porch lights and

paint jobs and lost loves.

The choice to look away

or not notice

white crosses replacing welcome mats.

Lovers like strangers,

fading, gone like present,


Crinkled notes, rusting lockets,

paling petals, jinxed jackets,

we keep.

730 Lorimer Street, Brooklyn, NY

Incarcerated by indolence,

cracking teeth chewing on keys.

It’s a joke —

to live next to the park,

to rot on one side of the window

while on the other side

puppies lick ice­ cream faces and

lovers acquire grass stains.

I’m waiting for the punch line.

I made it so beautiful inside

but the breeze doesn’t pass the screen

and I’m sucking on recycled air.

I’ve grown tired of waiting

for the other side

to call my name.

It’s no fun up here in my pretty bed,

recumbent in socks

and yellow wallpaper chains.


Chateau de Fleur, Los Angeles, CA

My body is my shape, my tenement,

my constitution, my vessel, 

my figure, my dwelling.

But I won’t dwell on definitions

for, not all nouns stay nouns.

Sometimes nouns turn into verbs

and no longer mean the same thing.

I’m thinking white, just white:

Angels Trumpets 

Dolls Eyes 


My figure is bringing pleasure

to someone rewriting its sum,

to body forth the lesser edition.

I stepped out for a moment

to visit 

Lily of the Valley 

and dress up in

Queen Anne’s lace

(it’s all that suits me now).