New poems, unpublished or possibly written for radio, will appear here from time to time. It’s possible other work will show up as well.
that door sill, and he being there, always,
becoming something, clearly, though what
isn’t known, disorder in his clothes, what
the body wears, and the available gestures
of the unencumbered human, the dance
of turning, of endlessly returning, but not
yet at a loss for words, them not belonging
to him, but loose in his throat, like germs,
and he coughing, he clearing his throat,
singing about home, and doing a soft-shoe,
just like he doesn’t care.