Between hammer and anvil
demons send out sparks
The acetylene tank’s blue flame
is the eye of the almighty
The rust of old parts
or the blood of the machine
An oil spill on the floor
or an exhausted rainbow
The heat of the engine
the cold of the season
The revving of an engine
clears carbon from the heart
A transmission job
moves the day along
A cut or a burn
and a bruise for the wages
When the car’s on the lift
it’s a poem in a mirror
Apr 20
Apr 20, 2026 at 1:13 PM UTC
He had seen too much
To trust his eyes
So he removed them
And held them in his hands
He could see tears falling
From the face of God
He could drown
In the salt of everything
He returned his eyes
To their dark chambers
And closed them forever
The tears of God
Sealed inside as in vials
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 1:47 PM UTC
Along forest paths
between city streets
among people
how often I’ve changed places
with empty spaces
diving into shadows
to swim in the backs of my eyes
something told me
they were the cracks
in which death resides
the places
in which truth hides
and I tried to leave a piece
of my dreams in each
for those who come after
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 2:21 PM UTC
The last “yassou” in Greek Town
Made ouzo shots fly up as one.
A Greek, Italian and Australian
Created madness therein.
The divine imagination
Was at least equal to the heroic sum.
A taxi drove us home at five am,
The meter set at sunrise’s minimum.
The Haitian cabbie hesitated
As though on voodoo we had visited:
Like the wing of a soaring sun
Countless gulls lifted as one.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 2:19 PM UTC
Billionaires on their trophy yachts
sip Grand Cru and pick delicacies
from Flora Danica plates
and Baccarat crystal.
The seas are their escape
at freedom’s own expense.
Asleep, waves accumulate a price
too expensive for their assets.
The rolling sea erases time
like Wall Street’s ill-gotten gains.
How far away we are from them—
our feet on a public pier,
their decks beyond the buoy line.
Their anchor lights
glint in illiquid distances.
And in our gazing, unseen shapes
stir from the depths,
sea-monsters of discontent
rising from envy we barely know.
Wealth means nothing
to the waves and their changes.
They carry their own interest,
whisper listing to the caves.
At the bottom of the sea
lies the Graff of their extravagance.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 3:16 PM UTC
He picked up a pen, but it never touched paper,
and in his mind’s-eye his beloved took form.
Then the moon began flying erratically,
all books were washed clean
and from the tip of his pen
a white dove flew into white space.
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 2:59 PM UTC
What’s barbershop banter without some politics
But the old customer with early onset dementia
Kept changing the subject and we played along
Swept up in the confusion of his memory
And for a short time gas prices were way down
Building was booming
Children played in the streets without fear
People respected one another
And humankind had just landed on the moon
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 7:14 PM UTC
It’s in those yellows and blues,
in the precision and balance
and the ether of the composition.
In the foot warmer on the floor
and the brass container on the wall.
The darkness of the jug
from which the milkmaid pours the milk
in a silvered thread
emerging from shadow,
that imperfect zero,
a void folding into itself.
A small act mirroring the cosmos,
like something refusing to vanish.
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 4:40 PM UTC
I love how, at summer’s end,
treetops drift away,
the sun wears a broader crown,
light is softer on your eyes,
you see an eagle
in the vastness of the sky.
Your skin also changes clothes,
adjusting to cooler nights,
in which you dream in solstice hours
and sleep a longer dream.
Gold and purple frame the end of summer,
like goldenrod and chicory
growing together,
swallowtails drifting over thistles.
The end of summer
is as big as the moon
over a harvested field.
It’s as small as the old couple,
walking in the distance,
ever more insubstantial.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 2:48 PM UTC
The blue beaker of sky in your hand,
drink it down, savour it,
swish it around until you can sing arias,
swim in the spaces of song,
open the spigot and pour another,
share it with your friends,
wash your face with it,
bathe in a bath of blue,
rinse all the meanness from your hair
until it shines with morning light,
soak your feet and fly,
play in the sprinkler,
immerse yourself everywhere,
laugh in a blue rain,
dive into everyone’s pool.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 2:45 PM UTC