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


has capricious blessings,
somewho’re almost ours

but do not yet exist,
which’s not the worst of crimes,
aeven mine

Mine like hands grown goosely
punched with scratchworthy
bloody warts

and the finer tongue how once I spaek
now comen out in spits, spats, spasms
of spunt spine

Ay go on and you, go on and same
in crude, rote, blameless change, 
but unclaim the naught of courage,

the substance of shame,
and ward you mere in will of eyelet, scrape of beak,
mouthstrand of night hair


Crouched at water's smooth edge at dawn