I write poetry very rarely, but occasionally certain words fall into my head and out of my pen.

The Panhandle
What is it about that bench
     a solid tree-green bench not unlike any other
     that calls the old and weary to rest and lean and crouch around their cigarettes?
The bearded one only appears occasionally,
     lingering in the background
     a chameleon whose battered blue jeans and gray-green jacket
     materializes when company arrives
     and sits.
They don't speak to each other
     just mentally prop each other up
     and watch the wind snatch away their smoke
     and silently wonder if it is snatching away their breath, too.

One morning, I sat in the Panhandle sketching these homeless men who kept on flocking to a single bench, never seeming to speak to each other. (1999)

Untitled
speak with your hands
with rhythms
the silk scrim before your eyes
filters through truth and forgiveness
for lost hours and miles apart
the yellowed gauze covering your senses
blocks words
but not hands
    and rhythms
should you accept their graces
should you call out
should you call
should you call for tidal flows, squalls,
    and the red beacon of shore-warning.

(1999)

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A short dialogue (1999)

Translations
She speaks in silences
shrugs
an eyebrow

carries more weight than velocity
and volume (pay heed)

cloth falling in shadows
the sh  sh  sh  sh
of washing
with her back turned

(1999)

Conclusions
A conch shell's ocean
plumbs deeper depths
than the folding of these words
but intent, dear friend --
that pale, delicate morality
so fragile in its astronomical positioning --
is my natural thread
bringing closure to the arrows of this night

(2000)

Her
the gods, little gods, they smile
in exquisite miniature

to feel your sway beneath my spirit
tiny explosions I fold, with you, into your gravity

(2000)