Old friend, you’ve caught me at my most lost, limp limbed in the gulag of unemployment. I have become God’s ombudsman: he scrapes his plate into my lap. Remember that …

Rebuilding is a matter of cinder / block and thickets of rebar rising up / the mountain’s steep face.

It was years before I learned to call this prayer: the right-hand corner of a page turned down to make another page. I attempted to escape, then return to the …

Truth be told, I wish she would unkiss me, turn me back into the frog I was and happy being. Give me back nights I dared the moon, fat and …

Poignancy of the discarded. The armless doll that stares from the trash heap in spring, the sagging sofa with the cat-scratched arms, the love-stained mattress in the rain. Inside-out umbrellas, …