Even on mud or grasses,
when you go walking with me I hear stones
that gnash and grinding roughly underfoot,
like walking on a driveway
down the paths of graveyards.
Great chunks have rubbed each other into grit.
Some slivers, too, shaved thin enough
the marble has rolled up
into itself,
shatter when stepped on.
Blood from a stone, how smooth will smooth enough?
What does your chisel know?
Your skin, where is it now? And what makes you
think you can soften marble?


Strain Again

La Plage Sud

All Change

The Nocturnes

Newton’s Cradle

Another Time

How We Know Each Other

Houdini’s Wife

Trying To Finish A Sonnet At Le Pain Quotidien

Crossing the Pont du Lac Ha! Ha!

(Running) After Catullus (With a Knife)

So What’s My Super-Objective

Remember Once, When It Was Raining,

The Word Is “Yet”

A Subway Sketch

Wait Up! I’m Hamlet, Too!

It’s Always Something

The Buddha in My Window Box Faces Away

Arranged

Don’t Go
