That Late August Feeling


Drenched in hurricane rain

wrung out from all of it


is this right

or do I not know what I am


How would I know what is not

how could you


to the vast whatever of it all

I squeeze my washcloth days

                          & soak


Why Bother With a Title

Can I write

myself out of this place


        hard to say

but if

the lines on these pages

        provide an exit ramp

                one line

                two lines

                line by line

driving toward someplace not here

    I know not

but maybe 

these few lines

        can start me going 





I protect my lungs

so they can breathe in

this breeze that won’t stay

the songs of dawn-birds

your words

the kind ones

all circulating inside me

like antibodies

at the ready