“Poems, like women’s shorts,

shouldn’t be too short.”

“It depends on your point of view.”


“I can’t see.”

“Open your eyes.”

“I see what you mean.”


“Do you travel to escape what you left behind?”

“No, I travel to escape what lies ahead.”


A house in the mountains is no place for the squeamish.

If a mouse doesn’t want to see one of its fellows

lying in a trap with a broken neck,

it should go somewhere else.


“Happy birthday!”

“Don’t remind me.

I’m too old to celebrate birthdays.

So what did you get me?”


On the wings of a storm

the woods are mine,

the wind-waxed drifts of snow


soft and sinuous in the silence.

I ski alone

but for metaphors of you.


We assume roads go


We assume bridges connect

two places.

We assume time from womb to tomb

has meaning.


How do we survive

in the world today

all of us?

Toddlers washed up on beaches dead,

millions camped in foreign lands,

waiting forever to go home.

One in seven rich and free;

six in seven poor, chaotic,

white lands no longer islands in the storm.

We “cannot endure, permanently,

half slave and half free.” Or

one-seventh rich, six-sevenths poor.

If not the poor then who

will tote trash, excise excrement?

the rich and the poor: symbiosis.

Poverty like production globalized

The poor always with us,

and that’s no metaphor.

Anyone can go anywhere.

Oceans and tall walls

make fragile fences.

Forget morality,

open doors more efficient

than machine guns at every entrance.

How do we survive in the world today

all of us or none of us?

All of us or none of us.


At night


on the rocks.

Under fertile fields,


on the rocks.

On rocky trails,

cairns, rocks

on the rocks.

Slipping on scree,

seeking to stand

on the rocks.

In a trembling time

desperate and down

on the rocks.

Like a rock

a helping hand

on the rocks.