castro street


my shadow
my train.
Luck, this much
is plain:

hatchet face,
ratchet grin.
The bin
needs emptying

too little.
It’s true, I’m in
the middle

lavender leaves

Flight Of the Bumblebee

What music would Korsakov write
if he were here on earth as the bees
are dying? Their hives weightless lungs
paper lanterns swaying on the wind?
Their queen done telling her endless
stories to stay alive, no longer daughter
of the immortal gods: Father Frost
and Mother Spring, her heart melting
for the love of a man.

harvest moon


The least cricket of evening
is invisible, naked except for
its tiny violin, the lost bell
of its heart. Somewhere
in this room my terracotta
cricket with its sap-colored eyes
raises a hair-thin quiver


Lo, the color of my mustache,
chestnut-shell with flecks of gold-leaf,
signaling to the world I take myself too
everythingly. Lo,


I’ve been keeping the quarter-full can of caffeine-free diet cola
Ma left in my refrigerator four weeks ago,
visiting from the chicken farm

scrable tiles


In a mo, you will be transported
to a civic amphitheater bedraped in rainbow flags
where a thirteen-year-old chanteuse will sing cumbia