Poetry

You were skipping stones and I was romancing the thought of your hands and my hands and the miles of water between us, Wondering what the distance means, our bodies…

Birds build their nests from sticks and gobs of gum in flaking foil, old condom wrappers, pop- tops, every dime I’ve ever dropped. The sun’s still sleeping. I am too.…

Look again. This is not some common hustle here by the road. Gaudy does not always mean cheap, but yes, she looks a little trashy there in all that lipstick.…

The spring rains wash away the last of the mud-encrusted snow. The cocoons burst like overfilled water balloons. The leaves emerge darker, a more emerald, sea-foam green. The dew-laden air…

“Do introverts get lonely?” Dogs don’t answer, snore on floor by queen bed. “Make More Love” wall art laughs above my pillowed head, hung before breakup. Hugless in Phoenix cuddles…

Because you felt better after the blood test we drove to downtown turning down Liberty, we waited for the pedestrians to cross above us, birds fluttered between a palmetto and…

1. note to self don’t wash the clouds the car looks ominous 2. yellow paint on the parking meter heads— Spring is here