Poetry. Essays. Reviews.


It is not The Word
that brings me to a perfect halt.

It is a hard, unbreakable consonant
that hurts my mouth like an olive pit.

Something clean, something
finished in my inner ear.

And outside:
All lung and no breath. It is easy

to remember this kind of stillness.
I want it on my skin

like a tick. I want to lie down
like a dog for what it might give me.

In the compost across the yard,
bugs suck at my scraps.

Fire soot—coffee grind—
apple core—and I think:

Save nothing. And I am in love.
I am in love with this quiet church.

(From Mass Poetry, Poet In the Spotlight)