The Poet

The poet
like a child
is confused
when he hears shouts

The poet
like the wild
will not will
away their doubts

The vast sea is the vast sea

red hooks
red hooks

As a handful
of water,
tastes better than it looks

The Greatest Refusal

My death as sum—three
times discounting
decent rehearsing
of thought
to voice in line and
worse, smoked stones awaiting,
abating, the ingrain curse.
No one, echo, eternal, inert.


I’m amazed at the way she carries
her weight,
angling ahead, temporally,
saying so much. And how I lay;

in wonder; empowered—marching mobile
machinery, peace-marking;
undercurrent undulating
in the pleasing empty lamplight,
encompassing—stacked down places—
lines of lights,

satisfied within a distillation
of quiet memories.