sent message
sent messenger
while waiting for word
winter fell and fell away


I whisk myself away, and
appetite follows. My stomach growls
when it’s horny–I mean hungry.
One of my favorite albums is
Sex and Food by Unknown Mortal Orchestra.


When I go to sleep I do not see monsters, it is your slight figure,
the windows are open and you give it to me easy with sugar and
I still don’t know what too much of a good thing can do, sugar
leave the drapes open—those moonlines have kept me up for fortnights,

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

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

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.