Poetry

This red cliff above
Neshaminy, and a wind
left here by the fat
of winter

Sometimes as he cuts back the spent blossoms
or lessens the height and girth of some shrub,
he sees himself cutting hair

I saw my old psychiatrist at Trader Joe’s,
sampling organic hand lotion.

So she could cope with the guilt
she renamed the dog before taking it
to the pound

With a lowball of Jack and fading ice
In one hand, he took me my by the other,
And without shoes on our feet,

Charley, or Cholley, or Chol—
grew gardenias, raised kids and tropical fish,
and broke the knees and heads of grown men.
A soldier in a fitted

The tree has no choice but to have its heart
exposed as I coax my mother to sleep.

You can start anywhere, with anything.
The tap of your fingerprint on an
unsuspecting ant. The release of a rope

I blame chance, that reprobate,
for my slide and spin and slow-motion
carom across both lanes.

The fig tree has fallen in love with the place in the yard
that separates neighbor from neighbor. I didn’t ask permission
to