Ars Poetica

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