Poems: Messages in bottles
Elevens: Forgotten things recollected in elevens—11, 22, 33...
Sacred Trespasses: Contributions to the literary pages at Sacred Trespasses


I weep with the agony of innocence.
A world which is a plane, I see, I do see
has two faces, chaos and reality,
and a simple fold in it as to produce
a wormhole to travel from real to surreal
I see can be folded too far, that chaos
comes maddening near and hilarious with
every voice and every hope and every doubt —
and what is outside the plane? Nothing! Nothing,
fearsome nothing-for-me, and what is between? —
Silence! Silence, all unthinkable silence,
tho’ lemme tell you, don’t be afraid, march fly,
you know silence, it isn’t fear you’re feeling
it’s that — o hey now isn’t that the same house,
isn’t that the same rise in the road the same
curve the same cloudbank even, and isn’t that
the same the true and same tremor in the sky
as when I was a boy and this tender hand
heavy with event descending pushing me
back down into the sunwarm antholed wood-hard
dirt did not tuck me under but left on me
from thinner silence the quiet mark of death