My Journal
My Poems

My Thoughts

My Poems


the shape of
her face on the pillow …
it’s been a while
since I tried to hold
moonbeams in my palm

embers on
the tip of your tongue
I trace the fall
of a morning star
on your bare midriff

bullet holes
on the mountain face …
for five bucks
a post-card of the valley
before guns took over

the rain pauses
on a sparrow’s wings …
my decision
to finally take her
off life-support

teach me how
to hold this spring
in my palm . . .
your book dog-eared
to a verse by Neruda

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