A dry river runs slowly.
If you hurry, even a little,
you can launch a secret.
I am part smoldering ash
held between cool fingers
like a cigarette at a party.
Someone gave me a paper hat.
I wanted a walking stick
made of paper.
Branches cast shadows
patterning the white wall.
I tacked up some poems.
The window washers pause.
You will name a skyscraper, they say,
if you write ten verses.
Every act billows like a full sail.
As “Transmutations,” The Garlic Peelers
Quills Edge Press, 2015
Poems