Partial Sonnet on Shit 

The dog took a shit on the concrete floor,
Left a hot pile by the garden gnome,

Poor Judith stepped on it walking out the door, 

All the dog thought was, “when in Rome…”


Poetry sits 

I wish people knew that God doesn’t come to me and demand my focus, the idea of spiritual change is disheartening and difficult, and my heart sometimes thinks itself more religious than my brain. 

I wish for faith like the poor wish for coin and the hungry for grain. 

I wish they knew nothing is promised and we sweep each other to the side, and we write to fill the spaces left in the streets, and that poetry sits at the dining table with influence and insolence and images of what we see and what we wish to see.

Nobody ever tells you about the guilt

They don’t tell you about the dull ache inside your ribs, or that you’ll see someone with the same dishwater blonde hair across the street, and when you do your heart will leap into your throat, begging you to cry out but choking it silent with a thump thump- they never tell you that each day you were too busy to call you were too busy to write you were too busy busy busy is another minute you’ll spend crying when they’re below you in the dampness, cold, stiff, quietly uninhabited. Nobody ever tells you about the guilt-